The Mistake
by Rector
Summary: Some mistakes are negligible and hardly noticed. Others have consequences that stretch for miles.
1. One

**The Mistake**

One is One

She was never quite sure, afterwards, when the idea had taken hold. It couldn't have been all the way back when she was a child of haphazard parenting; a frequently-absent and disengaged Naval officer for a father, a mother too involved in socialising to care much about her lanky, solitary child or, as it turned out, her own deteriorating health. Sarah knew the idea hadn't yet appeared by her early teens when she had her nose in books, trying to ignore the inanities of the fashionable girls in school. There was no way it had been at university, when she saw for the first time how unbelievably irresponsible and just plain _dumb_ most of the young men appeared. How annoying to be a woman equipping herself for a career, only to have to deal with the restrictions of a long-term relationship with some airhead. The idea certainly hadn't been present during the flurry of weddings her friends seemed to be enjoying in their late twenties. Nor had it been the faintest blip on her personal radar as she celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday with a vintage _Blanc de Blanc_ and a particularly striking Frenchman at the top of the Eiffel Tower. There had been fireworks in the night sky and a letter in her bag confirming she'd achieved her desire to have a million pounds free and clear in the bank before she was forty.

But somewhere between _La Tour Eiffel_ in September and writing a piece about Australian beaches for _Vanity Fair_ in October, Sarah Onile Lawrence decided she was going to have a baby.

In terms of time and money, she knew she could manage it more easily than some. Her travel writing career had had the double advantage of taking her quite literally all over the world as well as paying her handsomely to do so. Her continuing unattached status made her available for a significant number of projects where a female perspective was sought without her having to worry about finding a nanny for a young brood or having to deal with a vexed spouse. And she had indeed taken advantage of every opportunity; followed every pathway to experience, done things that, at the time, even her closest friends had labelled madness. Yet it had been _her_ madness to do or not do as she saw fit, the only accountability for mistakes of any kind lying firmly at her own feet. She was able to do precisely as she pleased; playing tennis at midnight when jet-lag wouldn't let her sleep, getting her long dark-brown hair trimmed in Rome or Barcelona or Berlin as the fancy took her. Her mirror showed a woman without too many wrinkles, whose hair still lacked any grey and whose dark blue eyes were clear and untroubled. She existed free and without constrictive emotional attachments of any sort. It was, Sarah was quite sure, the only sensible way to live.

Her parents both having done the decent thing and died before she had learned to scorn them too much for their weaknesses, also left her with just enough money to pay for either her entire undergraduate university tuition fees up front, or cover her living expenses for three years while she took out a student loan for the tuition, but not both. While she might have been able to stretch the money to four years, if she hadn't found a job and a new place to live at the end of that time, she'd have to reconsider being a student. After assuming her majority on her eighteenth birthday and after taking a very deep breath, Sarah opted for one year at university where she paid the full fee up front _and_ paid for her accommodation and living expenses for the same year. It was a gamble, but since she had no-one to convince but herself, Sarah made a rude noise at the forms she was completing before adding her signature and throwing everything into the post.

Her Cardiff-based Bachelor of Communications majoring in Journalism and Professional writing at the University of Wales was a joy and she grew mentally and emotionally with every book and journal article she managed to cram in. Before she'd completed her first year of undergraduate studies, she'd had several pieces of writing published, a few of them actually earning some money. The most significant one had been to the Guardian's _Observer_. The resultant fee for a two-thousand word review of the hidden places in Cardiff paid for a month's backpacking in Italy during the university's summer break. Those first two-thousand words had taken her an afternoon to write and when she returned to Cardiff at the end of August, she had ten similar length pieces on her laptop. Within three weeks, she'd found buyers for all but one of them, and her bank balance looked positively alien; four thousand pounds of her own earned money was utterly surreal to a twenty year-old. Keeping the money coming in paid not only for the remainder of her tuition, but also for a cramped one-bedroom house-share in a student house just off Cathedral Road, twenty minutes' walk from the university, less, if she cut across the park. By the time Sarah graduated with her Honours degree three years later, she had a semi-regular travel column in three regional newspapers, her reports and reviews almost always picked up either as soon as she tendered them, or were increasingly the results of commissions she was being offered. She also had more than thirty thousand pounds in the bank.

In keeping with such an independent ethos, she decided to continue her studies, taking a fancy to the languages she had already begun to pick up on her European backpacking trips. She was offered a scholarship by Cardiff to stay put which meant she only needed to pay for her lodgings and little else. In another two years, she'd achieved not only a Distinction in her Master of Linguistics, but by the time she crossed the stage to collect her diploma, she was writing for five newspapers, two tourism associations and a holiday magazine. It had been difficult towards the end of her studies; it had been a growing problem juggling her thesis and her commercial work, but she had gritted her teeth, thanked god she was single, and watched as the balance of her bank account quietly rolled over into six-figures.

Her first really big commission was a series of semi-advertising pieces for a tourism cartel based in Barcelona. Being able to write just as effectively in Spanish as she did in English was a massive advantage, and Sarah availed herself of every opportunity she could. The cartel work paid enough for her to put down a deposit on a really nice flat in South London which she immediately rented out to cover the mortgage payments. At twenty-five and less than six-months after completing her Masters in European languages, she was not only writing regularly for a dozen different British publications, but also a handful of continental ones. By the time she was thirty, she had three glossily illustrated travel books to her name, weekly by-lines in two of the nation's most prestigious newspapers and regular holiday columns in several international magazines. She had also paid off the South London flat, sold it, and had bought a very pleasing apartment in Lonsdale Square, Islington. Even though she still had a mortgage, it was relatively small, having sold her first property well and used almost the entire amount of the sale as a deposit on the new place. She also had almost half-a-million quid in the bank and had been around the world twice. Deciding to invest two-thirds of her nest-egg in renewable energies had been a terrifying moment ... all that money ... all that _risk_. But she took another deep breath and did it anyway; only to find that she'd stepped onto the green bandwagon at just the right moment as her investments soared. Within five years, the public appetite for solar panels and sustainable energy had exceeded even the most ambitious forecasts, and her financial future was secured.

Technically, and even though she was only thirty-five, Sarah knew she could have retired from commercial work at that point if she'd wanted; the income from her investments now more than sufficient to cover her expenses. She decided to decide what to do after she returned from France in March, where the ancient grey-cobbled streets still rang with the last songs of winter rain. And it was somewhere between the chill of Paris and the glowing heat of her latest project in the Australian south-west, that the idea of a baby took shape and became real.

How difficult could it be? Though happily unattached, she was not lacking in experience with men; Sarah had not the slightest illusion that this might be a messy, time-consuming and challenging life-change, but it was simply something she knew she _had_ to try. There was no rhyme or reason behind the unexplained desire; it was what it was. She still had absolutely no interest in settling into any sort of constricting relationship with any long-term partner; but then, that wasn't the relationship that she wanted. She wanted a baby. Her own child to love and cherish and to share in the wonders of the world.

But how to go about it?

Other than the recent Frenchman, she had no really close male friends she could ask for such an intimate favour, and following her mother's disastrous physical decline, had never been the type to enjoy the party lifestyle. She was far too selective to simply go out and pick up a man; casual sex, unless it was at a time and place of her own choosing, was rather boring when it came down to it. Few men had ever been sufficiently interesting for her to seek a repeat performance and frankly, she got as much pleasure from her Hitachi Magic Wand as anything else. However, while mains-powered sex aids were fine and dandy in their appropriate place, they weren't much good at making a baby. In which case, there was only one thing to do. Find a fertility clinic and make arrangements for science to work its own kind of magic.

Since money wasn't an issue in this point, Sarah spent the morning phoning around several specialist clinics and comparing services and costs. Not that cost was any real problem; even the most expensive of the private fertility centres was well within her anticipated outlay, assuming all went well, which, of course, it might not. She was already on the upper age limit for a successful intrauterine process, though her age wasn't by any means as old as some of the women whose reviews she'd spent time reading. It seemed that, as long as she was relatively healthy, which she was, and not too old, which she hopefully wasn't, then the entire process was relatively simple. You had a bunch of tests, chose the parameters for your donor, identified the most suitable time of the month and endured a procedure that by all accounts was less traumatic than having a pap smear.

Sarah realised there had to be an element of realism in this plan. No matter how much she might want this to be successful, and no matter how prepared everything was, and how carefully everything was handled, it still might not work. It seemed sensible to assume that she might not manage an instant pregnancy the first couple of times, so she'd give it six rounds of trying. If she wasn't pregnant after six cycles of the best and most intensive medical treatment she could find in London, then she'd give up the idea, go off to Chile and write the book on South American travels her agent had been banging on about for the last year.

After several weeks of rigorous research both on the phone and in person, she found the best place by far was the Centre for Reproductive Medicine at the University College hospital near Euston Square. It ticked all the boxes, had everything she needed and even the people who worked there were pleasant without being gushingly over-optimistic. It was also, as Sarah discovered, a noted centre of reproductive science with medical professionals coming from all over the world to work there and gain British experience. On top of all that, it was less than fifteen minutes away from her flat by taxi or a good half-hour's walk if she was feeling energetic. That the place was so scientifically well-known inspired a feeling of confidence; places like that would have to be above board and transparent, wouldn't they? That the clinic also had the highest success rate of any fertility clinic in London was another comforting piece of knowledge.

Getting in touch with the relevant people; filling in an endless series of forms; making bookings for tests and them more tests, and enduring the rather impersonal process of monitoring her internal body temperature twice-daily, was wearying. On top of this, Sarah was still maintaining her contractual writing obligations, though she'd already pared down her writing contracts to a more comfortable level. She taken the wise step of setting up a stash of pieces she written some months before; it would take very little for her to update them and send them in to her editors at the due time. And she had one more part of the process to go through before the actual insemination could begin prior to her next ovulation. Time to select a donor.

Sarah was surprised that she was able to be so specific in her choices. Ethnicity, nationality, general appearance, short, tall ... intellectual attributes, occupation ... it felt odd picking out the potential biological father of her child this way. But, well, _science_. Shrugging, she got on with it.

Ethnicity? Well, not that she really minded; her lovers had certainly been ethnically diverse, but the child might feel more comfortable if it was recognisably hers. So, Caucasian. _Hair colour?_ Dark, for the same reason. _Eyes?_ Blue if possible. _Height_ , tall, like herself, but general body-shape, athleticism, musical aptitude ... none of that felt important enough to specify. In these things, she'd let nature have its way.

Intelligence level? Sarah nibbled her bottom lip at this one. She had learned to prize intellectual thoughtfulness at university and wanted her child to have the best chance in the world ahead. Yes. _High_. Big tick for that one. Occupation? There were several that Sarah felt broad enough to suit her general aim, ticking Mathematician, CEO, Director, Artist, Writer, Musician, Journalist and Academic. Sadly, there were no boxes for Explorer or Astronaut. _IQ level?_ The highest possible. _Income level?_ Not that it made the slightest difference to her, but someone who could generate a reasonable income was usually good at something. She picked _Medium - High_. The doctors at the clinic had advised her the donor sample had to be properly prepared before the process could take place which, judging by her own ovulation chart, would probably be sometime in the next six days. Hugging herself with excitement, Sarah poured her permitted one glass of red wine with a celebratory dinner of oysters and steak, followed by a hefty dose of Folic acid and a multivitamin pill.

That had been four months ago and, even with the best will in the world, Sarah would be lying if she pretended not to be a little disheartened. She had followed all the instructions to their very letter. She had eaten all the right things, drunk none of the wrong things; she'd lain down when she was supposed to lie down, and exercised when exercise was called for. She relaxed, slept, walked, meditated, tried yoga, read, swam, worked and spent what felt like _hours_ at the clinic. But nothing seemed to have helped. Perhaps she was simply too old, after all. She had been advised this might have been a problem. There was no way of pretending this had been anything other than an eyes wide open affair.

Two more attempts and she'd have to review her decision. Should she extend the process for another six months or give the whole thing away as a bad job? She hadn't told any of her few friends about the attempt, not wanting sympathy or smothering sentimentality.

"We'd like to try a new donor," Doctor Engels leaned forward over his desk immediately prior to the fifth attempt. "Not that there's been anything wrong with the previous samples we've used, but sometimes trying with different biotic material can make all the difference. Are you agreeable?"

Of course she was. The particulars of the donors she'd selected were vague at best. So she was hardly likely to be picky at this stage. "As long as the basic selection parameters are the same, I have no problem trying anything," she sighed. "Though I'm also fully aware that no matter what we try, this mightn't work. You've been very up front about that, and I'm not the unrealistic type."

"Then if you're ready?" Engels stood, indicating the door. "The nurse is waiting for you in Room Three."

Nodding, Sarah walked down the well-carpeted hallway to the designated room. It was the one she'd been in four times previously, and she knew the ropes by now. Changing swiftly into a loosely-fastened paper gown, she sighed as she got onto the comfortable bed, listening as her usual choice of relaxing cello music piped in through speakers on the wall.

"This won't take but a moment," the nurse prepared the usual paraphernalia, including the catheter and slim syringe. "A bit chilly for the time of year," she said, helping Sarah into the best position. "Doing anything nice for Easter? Time simply flies these days."

Gritting her teeth at the unlikable though not painful or even really uncomfortable sensations, Sarah breathed deeply until everything relaxed and she began to float away on the lovely music.

"There, lovey. All done." The nurse was already piling the used equipment back onto a nearby trolley, snapping the rubber gloves from her hands as she tucked a couple of pillows beneath Sarah's knees to let her rest more comfortably. "Now just you lie there for a half-hour and have a bit of a nap if you can. I'll be back in to see you when it's time."

Nodding fractionally, Sarah lay back and let the measured tones of YoYo Ma float around her head. As soon as she was free from this place, she'd grab a cab home; have a healthy snack, rest in front of the television until the early evening when she'd probably go for a gentle swim at the Cally Pool, less than ten minutes away from her flat. Then she'd come home, have a light supper and maybe do a little work on one of her waiting commissions. She had five on the go right at that moment, but only two were getting close to their submission date. If she could knock one out tonight, then she could have a chat with her agent in the morning about any new book commissions going in her field.

And then, of course, she would wait.

###

It was now the seventh of May, five weeks since the last treatment. Five weeks in which, very importantly, certain _events_ had not taken place. Refusing to allow herself to become overly excited, Sarah did all the things she had been told to do; take all the supplements she was supposed to take, rest when she was supposed to rest. The one thing she had been advised _not_ to do was use any off-the-shelf pregnancy tests from Boots.

Naturally, therefore, Sarah was currently standing in her ensuite bathroom watching the second hand of her watch crawl around the dial with no fewer than five different pregnancy test strips laid out on the fine marble top of the vanity unit. Each kit ranged in colour from white through pink and purple to deepest dark blue. Some had one tiny plastic window; a couple of them had two windows. Several were ready for reading in less than three minutes; one of them took up to five minutes. But they all did exactly the same thing, and so Sarah watched as the second hand swept agonisingly slowly back up to the top of the hour. Holding her breath, she picked up the first test strip and stared. Then she looked at the second and then the third, barely glancing at the last two. Two lines. There were two lines in all of them.

She was pregnant.

"O.M.G.," a big grin crawled over her face and she felt a little lightheaded at the knowledge she'd finally managed to do the deed. Blinking rapidly, Sarah had three thoughts in her head. The first was to phone and leave a message for Doctor Engels, before contacting the obstetrics clinic she'd previously selected in Milford House, home of the London Obstetrics Centre. The next thing she knew she really ought to do was ring her agent and explain why she might not be on the market for anything major six-months from now, and for him to let her know if there were any interesting projects in the offing that she could complete within that time frame.

The final thing Sarah had promised herself to do was to go out and celebrate at one of her favourite burger joints in the borough of Islington, _Byron's_ in Upper Street. She'd avoided all fatty foods for nearly six-months and felt she deserved a classic double-cheeseburger with special courgette fries and a large banana smoothie. It might be the last time she had such fodder for a while.

Doctor Engels was naturally delighted, asking her to make an appointment for an confirmation test at the clinic, though that was more for their own records than anything else. The receptionist at Milford House remembered her earlier inquiry and was equally happy to instate her as a provisional patient until a final choice of obstetrician had been confirmed. Her agent, who went by the somewhat florid sobriquet of Milton Ajax, was rather less congratulatory. She had known him since he first rejected one of her early pieces while she was still at university in Cardiff, and as he had been generous enough at the time to offer a really solid critique of her writing, she'd naturally thought of him when she genuinely needed an agent to deal with the contracts she was being sent. Not quite old enough to be of her parent's generation, Milton had looked after her interests from the first, and she trusted him to death.

"Pregnant?" he sounded first shocked, then fatalistic. "I didn't even know you were that serious about anyone," he said slowly. "Who's the lucky chap?"

"There's no lucky chap," Sarah sank down onto an overstuffed settee with the phone at her ear. "I'm flying solo on this one."

There was a pause as the other end of the conversation. "You've done this deliberately?" Milton's tone had wandered away from the surprised into the concerned. "There's no _Mister_ Lawrence on the horizon?"

"Nope," Sarah held the phone tight to her ear as she lolled back on the sofa. "Though whoever invented the IVF process might be considered an honorary grandparent, I suppose."

"You've been to a ... a ... one of _those_ places?" Milton's voice sounded half way between disturbed and scandalised.

"Well, my darling Milt," Sarah was grinning at the man's slight discomfort. He was such an old prude at times. "Science is a wonderful thing and, in this instance, has managed to get Yours Truly right up the duff." Her grin got bigger at the thought of Milton Ajax squirming at such vulgarisms.

"And you don't even know who the father is?" Milton felt he had to at least inquire.

"Nary a clue, nor do I ever intend to know," Sarah raised her eyebrows and contemplated the ceiling of her sitting room. "This is all strictly impersonal; no names, no pack drill," she said. "The biological father of my child might be a banker or a drummer in a rock band," she sounded airy. "I don't know and I really don't care either way, though it does make me feel vaguely wicked and deliciously tarty," she had to bite her lip not to laugh.

"I think you're mad," Milton was calming down, though she could tell he was still vaguely disapproving. _Ah well_. His choice. She didn't have to make his problems her problems. "Are you going to be stopping work?"

Sarah laughed lightly, shaking her head even though there was nobody to see. "And why on earth would I do anything that silly?" she asked. "Until I'm too far gone to pick up my laptop, and maybe in the first few months when I start changing nappies," she added. "It might be nice to actually have a holiday of my own for once."

"But in the meantime, you're still okay for anything that might crop up?" Milton was clearly thinking about her writing career.

"As long as I can finish it before the loinfruit arrives," Sarah grinned again. "It's due at the end of December," her grin widened even more. "A perfect Christmas present, in fact."

"I still say you're mad," her agent's tones had mollified somewhat now that the idea was sinking in. "But you must promise me that if there's anything you need, you will ask, won't you?"

He sounded so sincere and so suddenly thoughtful that Sarah found her throat tightening. "Of course I will, you foolish literary agent, you," she smiled understandingly. "I wanted you to be the first to know, that's all."

"And I'm glad you wanted to share the news with me," his voice was softer now, a caring note in his words. "You know I'll always be here for you, whatever you need."

"I do, and I think you're a darling person," Sarah smiled brightly. "I have to rush; there's a couple of other people I really have to share this with," she said. "Talk soon, yes?"

"Of course we'll be talking soon," Milt sounded more like his usual self; bluff, gruff, pedantic old Milton Ajax.

The rest of the evening went quickly as Sarah thumbed through her telephone book to see if there was anyone who'd be mortally offended if she didn't tell them the news. There were less than a handful, for which she was immeasurably thankful; get all the baby nonsense out of the way right at the beginning, and she could get herself back to work, at least for the next few months, or until she got too big to fly. An idea appeared in her mind about writing a travel guide for the pregnant professional; understanding airlines, sympathetic travel services, carefully designed hotels ... it might be fun to do. It would also be her child's introduction to the fabulous world of international travel.

Eating the last of the courgette fries and patting her tummy with happy fingertips, Sarah knew this was going to be an amazing experience of unparalleled growth, mental development and personal affirmation. This whole baby-thing was undoubtedly going to be brilliant.

###

" _What?_ " She looked from one to the other of the three, tense-faced men watching her from the far side of Doctor Engel's desk. "What do you mean, 'there's been a _mistake'_?" Sarah felt her pulse begin to pound faster as their words sank into her muddled brain. Had the confirmation tests uncovered something awful? Had the donor suddenly admitted some previously hidden, but dreadful congenital disorder? Was she not even pregnant? _What was the problem?_

"Not in terms of the baby's health or in any way that your donor's parameters were compromised," Engels raised his hands towards her in an attempt to reassure. "It's simply that the donor sample you were given ... was not exactly _meant_ to be used in our fertility program," he smiled placatingly, a little too much anxiety showing in his eyes.

"That tells me nothing useful whatsoever," Sarah felt herself warm with annoyance. Normally, she avoided losing her temper, but she had a feeling that this might be one of the times it would help. "In simple words, if you please," she crossed her legs and waited, deep suspicion written all across her face.

"My name is Bailey, Marshall Bailey," the oldest of the three men stood, smiled fleetingly and began pacing a little way off behind the desk. "I'm the Medical Centre's senior legal advisor and it falls to me to set the situation out in legal terms," he turned and smiled down at her. Neither his tone nor his rather patronising expression were terribly helpful, though Sarah was a veteran of many contractual negotiations and was unfazed by Bailey's pompous manner.

"So we're dealing with a legal situation then?" Sarah steepled her fingers in her lap. "Should I have my own legal representative join us for this discussion?" she asked, lightly. The response to this question would provide a great deal of information.

"Oh, there's no need for lawyers to get involved, not really, is there?" Engels and the third, as yet unintroduced man exchanged glances.

"And yet you felt a need to have your own senior legal advisor here ..." Sarah splayed her fingers in the air, questions hanging unspoken. "Perhaps if someone told me what was actually going one, we might be able to consider potential solutions to this problem, whatever it is."

"An excellent way to see the situation, indeed, excellent," Marshall Bailey's smile was as false as the rest of his behaviour and Sarah realised at that moment that the clinic had made a very embarrassing mistake indeed, even though she didn't know yet quite what it was. They were panicking; both Engels and this man Bailey were terrified.

"You say the donor sample you gave me was the wrong one?" _Oh, god_ ... Sarah's pulse thudded afresh as her imagination kicked in. _The donor was a convicted serial killer and they never knew! A cannibal psychopath, a homicidal maniac ..._

"In addition to this centre focusing on reproductive science, it also undertakes research in stem-cell application, as well as a number of highly classified projects," Bailey pursed his mouth and looked down at his feet. "There are numerous research activities taking place here at all times, involving many test subjects; an almost endless stream of biological samples being taken, analysed, stored, used," he frowned to himself. "It is almost inevitable that, at some point, a single sample intended for one purpose, might be misdirected and used for another, entirely different purpose," he paused, inhaling slowly, raising his eyes to hers.

 _Oh_. Sarah realised what had happened. Her donor had not meant his donation to be donated.

"But you say there is no problem with the baby's health; that this ... misplaced …sample still matched all my specific parameters?"

"This is all quite true," Engels joined in, leaning forward on his desk, clearly relieved Sarah hadn't yet launched into a screaming fit. "Without going into details, I think I may confidently say that this particular donor is exceptional in every measurable way ..." he was about to say more, but was silenced by a swift hand-movement of the third, and thus far silent member of the trio. He was short and thin with a weaselly face and wore a dark, seriously business-like suit of good quality. He seemed far more sombre than either Engels or Bailey. If she had to watch out for any of them, it would be this guy, Sarah noted to herself. She took a slow breath and waited for the other boot to drop.

"I represent the interests of the ... _donor_ in this matter," the man didn't even bother with an introduction. "While the gentleman is as unhappy with the situation as is the clinic, he is also aware that he must, in some way, take responsibility for what, in the fullness of time, will hopefully result in a healthy child. Since my client is financially secure, he would very much like to ...

"Stop right there," Sarah raised her left hand up, palm outwards. " _No_ ," she added quietly, suddenly understanding what they were asking her to do and not wanting any part of it. "From the very beginning, I have been fully determined and perfectly capable of managing this situation entirely on my own and without interference," she kept her voice low, though she could feel the anger beginning to roil again in her stomach. She rose gracefully to her feet.

"I am also financially secure, and I do not need, want or require any man to be involved in my life. I do not _want_ the donor to be held responsible, irregardless of how much he has in the bank, or how very much he might wish to do something for my child. Gentlemen, my answer is no."

"Ms Lawrence," Marshall Bailey lifted both hands in an unconscious plea. "Please consider," he suggested carefully. "The donor, and in this case, a truly unsuspecting man, must surely have some right to acknowledge his child?"

Sarah stood tall and unmoving, intensity hardening her features. "One of the reasons I came to this centre for treatment," she said, very calmly, "was because of its extraordinarily comprehensive policy on donor and patient anonymity," she paused, looking straight at the nameless, dark-suited man. "I can see that my legally-assured privacy has already been violated," she added, staring unblinkingly at each of the three men in turn. "However, you should know that I am a cautious person by nature, and have learned never to sign any form of contract without first having it thoroughly vetted by my own legal advisors," she allowed a tight smile to curve her mouth. "In this matter, and according to your own policy, my privacy and my choice to maintain that privacy supersedes any wishes of the donor, whether he donated his biotic material knowingly or not," she took another slow breath. "If I am approached in the future, in any way or form by either the donor or any of his ..." Sarah paused, turning her stare directly back at the unsmiling man in the business suit. " _Representatives_ , then please know that not only will I take great pleasure in suing this clinic, the university and both you, Mister Bailey and you, Doctor Engels, to the fullest extent of the law, but you should know I am also a journalist," she said, pausing again. "And being a journalist, with _many_ journalist friends and colleagues, it would be the work of a moment for me to expose this entire shambles in the public domain, which would, I am sure, result in a significant loss of funding from both the public _and_ private spheres," she smiled sweetly. "I do not want to know this man, I do not wish this man, whoever he might be, to have anything to do with me or my child, now or at any time in the future. _This child is entirely my affair and I will not hesitate to defend my legal right to absolute privacy_ ," breathless, she paused a third time, straightening her back. "Am I clear?"

"And is this your final word on the matter, Ms Lawrence?" Mister Dark Suit looked at her with a suddenly appraising eye. "You are not prepared to permit the man I represent either formal or informal access to the child, even though he is most certainly legally entitled to that access?"

Picking up her coat and bag, Sarah walked towards the door. "If I hear one more word about this, the next people you talk with will be solicitors and journalists," she said, observing the weaselly-faced man lift a phone to his ear as she headed out into the deeply carpeted corridor. Her chest was tight with unexpressed fury, however, by the time she'd reached the front entrance of the clinic, she felt her stomach muscles slowly beginning to relax. When she rounded the corner of the large building and reached Grafton Way, she was able to take a deep breath without shuddering, and by the time she turned onto Gower Street, looking for a cab, Sarah felt almost normal again, though her thoughts continued their mad spin.

Heading into Euston Square, Gower Street was very busy with all manner of ambulances, delivery vehicles and, police vans, as well as the usual mid-day central-London traffic of business people heading out to lunch. Still caught up in her gradually receding anger, Sarah took absolutely no notice of the sleek black Jaguar parked across the road from the hospital buildings.


	2. Two

There had been no letters, no telephone conversations, no emails or odd messages via any form of electronic mediation. Nobody had come banging at her front door, nor had she been accosted on the street or had strange notes left for her. Her friends had not bothered her; nobody had contacted her solicitors. It had been four weeks since the disagreeable meeting in Doctor Engel's office at the clinic and Sarah was beginning to think that she might actually have called their bluff. Had the university clinic persisted in trying to bully her into acquiescing, she'd have had not the least moment's hesitation before rallying every element of support there was to be rallied. However, since she'd been left well alone, then perhaps the mysterious man behind the unsupportable request had accepted her decision. Sarah thought her way through all these things several times in an effort to placate the small part at the back of her brain which knew she was being followed. Not overtly or in any way that might constitute harassment, but for the last couple of weeks, she'd had an almost constant sensation that someone was watching her every time she set foot in the street. She still jogged early in the mornings and probably would until she felt too heavy to do so, but even swathed in her nondescript and all-concealing grey fleece hoodie and track-pants, Sarah was becoming increasingly convinced she was the target of specific observation. Yet every time she'd turned to look, there was nobody there; the street behind her entirely empty of pedestrians, but the sensation remained.

The last time she'd felt eyes on the back of her neck had been that very morning as she'd run her usual three circuits of the Lonsdale Square gardens outside her home; their lush and well-kept greenness one of the main reasons she had bought an apartment here. The weather for the second week of June was dismal, with endlessly overcast skies and near constant rain. Everyone was fed up with it, including herself. Sarah felt it was time for her to make one of her overseas visits to somewhere warm and peaceful. There was a project she'd been meaning to take on, but she'd always thought it a little too benign for her, a tour of famous Benedictine monasteries in France, alongside their famous vineyards. Not that Sarah drank a great deal at the best of times, though she did enjoy a decent glass of red now and again. The French monasteries even had their own tourism office these days, and she had been specifically requested for the job after she had written a similar piece the previous year on castles in the Rhône Valley.

The weather in France was behaving itself perfectly well for the time of year and once the notion of being able to walk along warm, sunny lanes in leafy green countryside took hold, she could hardly wait. On the phone, Milton sounded a little more concerned.

"Are you sure you should go, in your condition?"

"Milt, I'm not even three months gone yet," she protested. "The baby's the size of mouse, and I'm not due for my twelve-week scan until the end of the month," she laughed. "I'll fly over to Gevrey-Chambertin via Lyons," she said. "I'll meet up with the monastery tourism people, get driven around for a week and have a nice dose of sunny vitamin D, as well as maintaining my public profile and getting some healthy fresh air at the same time. What can possibly go wrong?"

"What if you become ill?" Milton Ajax was noted for his tenacious approach to negotiation and it was coming through loud and clear. "What if you need specialist medical attention and you're with a bunch of French monks?"

Sarah laughed until she started coughing. "Oh, Milt," she sighed, fondly. "You are such a problem. What am I ever going to do with you?"

You could marry me," he answered abruptly. "Marry me and let me look after you and the baby," he continued quickly before she could say anything. "You can still go off on your travels and I'll be able to stay here at home and look after the little one, but I'll know that you're safe and that you'd always be coming home to me ..." his words tailed off, realising he'd said far too much, yet at the same time, not nearly enough.

Exhaling a loud puff of breath, Sarah stayed silent as her mind attempted to work its way through this latest tangle. Milton Ajax was the most thoughtful and wonderful of colleagues, and while she had strong feelings for him, they weren't _those_ kind of feelings. Deciding that directness was the only way forward, she cleared her throat. "Do you really love me, Milt?" she asked, knowing that if he pushed this, their working relationship would be over. "As in romantic, passionate love, not the baby-sister or annoying-but-adorable-prodigy kind of love?"

There was a distinct pause at the other end of the phone. "Of course I love you," he announced finally. "And we've known each other for years; I think we'd make a good match," he added. "And I can't bear to think of you going through all this by yourself." There was the faintest of quivers in his voice.

"But my big silly Milton forgets that going through this experience by myself was _entirely_ the plan," Sarah searched for a way to turn down his offer with a kindly meant but clearly understandable _no_. "I'm _never_ going to be the marrying kind, I don't think," she said. "I'm far too independent for anyone I know, including _you_ , my dearest pal," she sighed softly. "If I married you, we'd be at each other's throats before the child was even born and I couldn't bear to lose my very best friend."

"So the answer's going to be no, is it?" he spoke stiffly, uncomfortably.

"The answer _has_ to be no," Sarah closed her eyes tight and made a pained face she was glad he couldn't see. "Although you've just confirmed how lucky I am to have a wonderful friend who would even consider doing such a thing for me."

There was the sound of a long exhalation. "Oh, alright then," Milton was nothing if not a realist. He genuinely cared for her as an old friend and was truly concerned about her being alone. But if Sarah was determined to do this whole thing her way ... No point fighting fate. "When do you want to start researching the monastery piece?"

Rolling her eyes with relief, Sarah felt she could afford to be magnanimous. "Any time you like," she said. "But the sooner the better as far as I'm concerned; the weather here is too gloomy for words."

"Right," Milton sounded almost back to his usual self. "I'll make a phone call for you and see how soon we can set the gig up. I'll ask for a premium rate on this one, I think," he mused out loud. "They're getting a known quantity, as well as the fact it's going to be one of your last pieces until after the baby's arrived," he said. "It never hurts to keep your street-value up."

"Which is why we work so well together," Sarah smiled, knowing all was well between them again. "Call me with the details; I have to check my passport's still current," she added, farewelling and ending the call.

Thank god she checked. Even though she no longer always needed a passport to travel within the European Union, she still carried it as a form of ID, accepted anywhere for all manner of things and entirely useful, though not always in the way it was originally intended. The current booklet was getting pretty battered and, after checking the date, realised it was due to expire in a couple of months. She could start the application for a new one before she left and then send in the old one when she got back from France.

Knowing exactly what she was heading into, and with the knowledge of how long such a piece of work was likely to take, Sarah felt cheerful and upbeat. Heading off to sunnier climes, if only for a week or so, always made her feel better. She was looking forward to such a comfortable little trip. She was relatively sure there was nothing that could go wrong, really.

###

"What do you mean, 'there's a problem with my passport'?" she demanded of the uniformed official who even now was guiding her into a private interview room just off the security check-in at Heathrow Terminal Three.

" _Terribly_ sorry, Ms Lawrence," the blandly smiling woman official gestured to one of the lightweight chairs in the small room they'd both just entered. "Please take a seat and someone will be with you in a few minutes to clarify the situation."

"But I've already checked my bag in and my flight is due to leave in less than forty minutes," Sarah protested, still standing. "There's nothing wrong with my passport; it's not even due to expire until the middle of August and I'll be back before the end of this week ... What on _earth_ is all the fuss about? This has never happened to me before." But the woman had already vanished through a second door in the far wall and there were no windows anywhere to see what might be going on outside. Her passport had been confiscated too, so the only thing to do was wait.

Trying the handle of the solid wooden door she'd just come through, Sarah noted it was now locked. Walking across to the door the other woman had used, she found it was locked too. _Great_. Trapped in a windowless cell of a room with two plastic chairs and a heavy wooden table and her flight was due to take off in half-an-hour. She sighed heavily, sitting in one of the chairs and folding her arms. She was being treated like a criminal; there had better be a bloody good reason for this.

Forty-five minutes later, just as Sarah fancied she heard the last faint roar of her flight as it headed to Lyons without her and her temper had reached simmering point, the far door opened again. This time however, it was a man who came in, not the woman from before. Nor was this particular man anything she would have expected to see in a squalid little interview room at Heathrow.

Tall, like she was, the man's dark hair, fine features and blue eyes made Sarah tweak her eyebrows in mild surprise. It was almost like looking at a male version of herself. The man's suit screamed Savile Row, just as his manicured fingertips and quiet, unassuming presence told her that he shouldered a great deal of authority, though oddly, not the sort of authority one would expect to find at an airport. Looking more like the CEO of a major international bank or perhaps a heavy-hitter in the stock market, he was definitely not the sort of person you'd expect to find chasing down minor passport irregularities. Without a word, he took the seat on the opposite side of the table and laid a slim, unopened manila folder between them. Resting his elbows on the solid wood, he steepled his fingers, lifting his eyes to her face with an unblinking stare. "Sarah Lawrence?" his voice was quiet but like the rest of him, carried an air of command. He radiated authority.

Which meant absolutely fuck all to Sarah in her current mood. The slowly heating simmer of the last half-hour came to a suddenly seething boil.

" _Why am I here?_ " she demanded, leaning forward on the table and staring back into the man's eyes with the same unblinking focus as his own. "Who are you? What am I supposed to have done? How _dare_ you treat an innocent British citizen in this cavalier way? Do you realise I've missed my flight because of all this nonsense? What in hell's name is going on?" She didn't quite bang her hand on the tabletop between them, but it was a close thing.

Waiting either until she ran out of breath or until he had managed to form a response to the interrogation hurled at his head, the man said nothing, though he did check the silver hunter hanging from his waistcoat.

Even that action sent Sarah into fresh paroxysms. Who the _hell_ used a bloody fob-watch these days? _What a pretentious_ _arse._

"Ms Lawrence," his smile was politic rather than sincere, its false smoothness giving Sarah the desire to hit him with her chair. "My apologies for keeping you waiting so long; I arrived as soon as I was able. Arrangements are already in hand to have you on the next flight to your destination and I have taken the liberty of upgrading your seat to First Class. You should arrive at Lyons little more than an hour after you would otherwise have landed and I hope this will, in some small way, help make up for the inconveniences you have endured this afternoon."

Not even beginning to feel mollified, Sarah scowled mightily. "You still haven't answered any of my questions," she set her jaw in an uncompromising line. "And if I merit first-class on the plane, why the hell have I been getting the gulag treatment in here?"

Leaning back in the less than palatial seat, the man folded his arms across his chest and pursed his mouth, his eyes still not leaving her face. It felt like he was assessing her and her likely behaviour. "My name is Mycroft Holmes," he replied. "I work for the government in a capacity which enables me to ... arrange ... certain things, and you are here because I wanted to meet you."

 _He had wanted to meet her?_

"Aside from the fact that most normal people can meet other normal people in a myriad of ways apart from having them abducted and thrown into a place like this," Sarah deepened her scowl. "I have no idea why you or any other government employee would want to meet me so urgently that I had to miss my plane for the experience!"

Grabbing her bag and standing suddenly, she walked over to the door through which she had entered the room. "This door is locked," she pointed angrily at the handle. "I refuse to talk to anyone, least of all a pompous, overbearing stranger, in a locked room," she snapped. "Open it _immediately_."

"I assure you, the door is not locked," Holmes did not move, his urbane smile returning.

"It bloody well _is_ locked," Sarah glared at the seated man, who stood abruptly, striding over towards her. With a swift turn of his wrist, the handle moved silently and the door opened.

"Not locked," he said standing close enough to assess the changing micro-expressions on her face.

"Well, that's a start," Sarah stayed where she was. _It had been locked, which meant this man had arranged it to be unlocked when he came in to speak with her. It was nothing less than psychological intimidation._ "Now I want my passport back and an apology for all this stupidity, and then I'll consider listening to whatever it is you have to say, and _then_ I'll get on my new plane and try and forget about all this ..." she glared around the dull little room and back to him. "Whatever all _this_ might be."

"Coffee?" he asked, or do you prefer tea these days?"

 _These days? What did he mean by 'these days'?_

"I have no wish for a drink," Sarah wasn't about to unbend that quickly, not until she had all her demands met. "Passport first," she held her hand out, palm up.

Returning to the file on the table, Holmes flipped the cover open, revealing several closely printed sheets of paper and her trusty old passport which he placed into her waiting fingers two seconds later.

"Your new boarding pass," he added, handing her a second slip of paper. "You are entirely free to continue your journey, Ms Lawrence," he added, "but I genuinely want to speak with you before you do."

"And now I'd like an apology," she said undeterred, checking her boarding pass to see that she really was going to be seated at the pointy end of the plane. "I'm far from happy with any of this," she added. "If you want a civilised conversation, I suggest you don't piss me off any more than you already have."

Inhaling slowly, Mycroft Holmes narrowed his eyes fractionally and stood tall, almost as if he was preparing to stare her down. Sarah was shorter than him, but only by a few inches and she was not in the mood to be stared down easily. Especially not by this overdressed control nut.

"I apologise," he said, impatiently. "I have limited time at my disposal and speaking with you has become an important requirement," he offered. "For these reasons, I expedited matters and inconvenienced you. I am sorry; it won't happen again."

 _Well_. That was at least a proper apology. Sarah felt some of her inner heat dissipate. Glancing at the boarding pass and then at her wristwatch, she saw there was twenty minutes before she had to be at the departure gate. "You have ten minutes," she said, meeting his eyes again. For a second she could have sworn she saw a flash of relief, but it was so swiftly gone that she wasn't sure.

"Then would you like a seat?" gesturing to the chair she'd so recently vacated, Sarah didn't mind taking it now she was doing it by choice and not by intimidation. She sat.

"I'm listening," she said, folding her arms and raising her eyebrows in query. "What do you want?"

Now that they were actually both sitting at the table and about to converse, it seemed that the man was suddenly hunting for words. There was a long pause while he frowned down at the tabletop before looking up abruptly. "I know you're pregnant," he stated flatly. "I'm the biological father."

As the blood roared up in her ears, Sarah felt her arms go heavy and her heart thud enormously hard in her chest. Wanting nothing more than to stand up and slam out of that horrid little room, she found she could barely move and that even her breath was laboured. The walls started to spin around her head.

"Oh, _lord_ ," the man vaulted to his feet and out through the rear door of the room. Sarah heard several loud words spoken, though she couldn't tell what they were. Moments later, the man reappeared with two plastic cups of cold water. Bending down around to her side, he put one in her hand, helping her lift it to her mouth where he watched her sip several times with all the attention of a mother eagle watching its chick devour its first catch. " _Breathe_ ," he murmured, insistently. "Deep breaths. Have some more water," his long fingers curled around her hand, helping her lift the flimsy cup to her lips again.

There were more loud words, but Sarah was rather intent on not closing her eyes to take notice of whatever was being said above her head. A cool hand rested itself against her forehead, just as equally cool fingers pressed her wrist for a pulse. She could feel the thump of her chest lessening, but things seemed to be very far away...

The next thing she knew, she was lying on the carpet, something soft but bulky under her head, and her feet were being held above the floor. She felt fine, though would have killed for a cold drink. "Is there any more water?" her voice seemed strangely wobbly.

"Of course, here," the man was on one knee beside her, holding another plastic cup to her mouth, the water this time deliciously chilled and fresh. Sliding a hand beneath her head, he helped her sit up enough so that she could drink without choking.

"What happened?" Sarah felt able to take a deep breath now without the room spinning around her head.

"My fault, it seems," the man, who had lost his jacket somewhere, sounded genuinely contrite. "I gave you a shock and you fainted."

"I have never fainted in my life," Sarah was regaining more control over her actions and she pulled her feet away from whoever was keeping them off the ground. "I feel perfectly fine, in fact."

"You're probably alright to sit up now," a woman's voice sounded from behind her head, beyond her line of sight. "You took a little dizzy turn, but you're all right now."

Struggling to sit up and then to stand up, Sarah was beginning to feel irritated again. "I have no idea what everyone's talking about," she said, finding her feet and brushing carpet fluff off her jeans. "I don't faint, nor do I get dizzy. I must have low blood sugar or something; I probably need to eat."

"My dear, that was as classic a faint as I've ever seen, and I'm a doctor, so I think I know what I'm talking about," the woman turned to the jacketless man. "She should be fine now, but please, no more shocks, and I'd have her see her own doctor; her blood pressure is probably a little low."

Finding herself back in the cheap plastic seat, Sarah sipped more of the cold water. Only then did she think to look at the time. Nearly fifteen minutes had passed. If she was to catch her replacement plane, she needed to get to the gate in the next five minutes.

"I am leaving," she stood, looking for her bag and realising she'd been using the man's coat as a pillow. She resisted the urge to stand on it. "My flight is due to board in minutes."

"The plane will wait," picking his suit jacket up from the floor, he brushed it down, slipping it on and smoothing creases out of the arms as he straightened his cuffs. "The pilot has already been advised that a VIP is running a little late. You have plenty of time," he said, looking at her strangely. "If you still think you should go, that is?"

 _Oh, yes_. Sarah remembered what he'd said right before she went a little wobbly and she started to feel angry again. "I want to go now even more than before," she snapped, her head clearing quickly as her internal temperature began to rise with her returning temper. She had not the slightest intention of getting into any conversation with this man about her child. If she wasn't in a rush now to get to Lyons for her meeting with the monastery tourism representative, she'd have given him an earful about the principles of democracy, privacy and unlawful detention.

"You are a vile and obnoxious man and I want nothing to do with you," she hissed, grabbing her bag and checking her passport and boarding card were still in her coat pocket. Throwing open the door, Sarah headed for the gate where her new flight had just announced its first boarding call. She did not look back.

###

It was the last day of July and the weather in London was becoming increasingly sultry and humid. Sarah was officially sixteen weeks pregnant, her bump was a definite thing and she had been affected by the strangest crying jags; one minute, she was perfectly fine, the next she was howling over absolutely nothing at all. Almost anything set her off, though symphonic music and old Hollywood films appeared to be the worst culprits. This was strange since, as a general rule, she rarely cried, though she had made it a rule never to watch _Dumbo_ again. But now ... anything in a minor key and she'd feel her throat begin to tighten and her eyes burn. She daren't watch anything on the telly that might have an animal with a hurt paw or stories about children in hospital. It was bloody ridiculous, is what it was, and she determined to ride the experience out, just as she was doing with everything else.

Doctor Anni Mandal, her obstetrician, was a lovely lady who, like Sarah, had done a great deal of travelling. Their sessions together were usually in two parts. The first part was the medical checks, the scans, the tests and the serious discussions. Sarah's due date was calculated to be December the thirty-first. This led to the second part of the obstetric discussion, which was how long Sarah could keep travelling for work before she should stop flying and generally rushing around on business. Amidst all this discussion and debate, the two women would sip green tea and talk about their favourite hotels. Sarah had already made several notes towards her next book; medical tourism and the places to stay best suited to the international visitor. Anni talked about her first practice in India and being practically forced to love tea as she had been born in Darjeeling. This, of course, led to other discussions of interesting locations to have one's baby. Following their latest discussion, where Sarah mentioned she was toying with the idea of having the child in New York, thus enabling the infant to have dual nationality, Anni made a brief phone call as soon as Sarah had left the consulting rooms.

Since his first declaration, Milton had not renewed his petition to have Sarah marry him, but she could sense his concern every time they talked. He was all for her stopping work right away, until the child was at least old enough to travel with her, although _that_ idea usually set him off on yet another bout of muttering. He had done a really marvellous job of finding Sarah an ongoing number of bite-sized projects to tackle, none of them taking her terribly far away from home. But she was itching for a really solid piece of exploration and told him so.

"I'm pregnant, Milt, I'm not sick. Let me do what I'm good at doing, for god's sake."

"I don't think you should be overdoing things with only a few months to go," he seemed grimly determined to look after her whether she wanted him to or not. This clearly meant no jaunts to Anchorage or Ulaanbaator.

"Then isn't there something in Europe that I can do?" she groaned. "The reason I got into this business is because I love the travelling and seeing new places, and all you've had me doing for the last three months are milk runs that get me back home within twenty-four hours. That last gig in Dublin was in and out in the same day! I didn't even get a chance to have a glass of Guinness! That's not travelling; it's barely extended parking!"

"Well, if you're bloody determined to overdo things and probably end up in hospital with exhaustion and Christ knows what else," Milton sounded exasperated on the phone, "then I have a job for you in Moscow if you want it."

"Moscow?" Sarah grinned slowly. She hadn't been back there in an age. "What's the brief?"

"Intourist have been getting multiple calls for help since the recent problems between Russia and the rest of the EU," there was a rustling of paper. "A number of the major tourism concerns in the capital, several big hotels, a couple of tour operators and at least one national park, are desperate to have some positive write-ups in the mainstream European press and are willing to pay big biccies to make it so," he added. "It means flying over there for at least a week, possibly ten days. You'd be getting the best accommodation, of course, as well as all the most cheerful tour guides and enough holiday brochures to redecorate your kitchen. They want at least three major reviews; one for the hotels, one for the tours and another one for both the breathtaking natural beauty and the city's classic monuments, which should probably be done in a two-parter. We're talking a minimum of eight thousand words here in total, plus photographs, plus digital uploads. You can have your own choice of photographer or they'll be happy to supply you with a baker's dozen when you get there. You were asked for specifically by name. Interested?"

"What's the deadline?" A lot would depend on this; Sarah never took anything on unless she knew she could meet the client's desired date for delivery.

"They want a delivery date at the end of October," Milton sounded wary. "In time for next year's Spring promotion campaigns. You'd be over there in August and back home before the end of the month; giving you four weeks to write the pieces and edit them up with the visuals in time to send them back out for final proofs at the beginning of October. Intourist are being told to spend big to get the deal done, so we can afford to hire an assistant proof reader to help fine-tune the digital materials. What do you think?"

"I think I want to know how soon I can get over there," Sarah felt a rush of excitement; new projects always did this to her. The writing deadline was fine; she'd never had any real issue with tight timeframes, but this one was positively generous. This was mostly because Milton had been deliberately keeping her from taking on too much at any one time and she had nothing else on the boil right now. "Tell Intourist it's a go from this end, and that I'd prefer an earlier rather than a later travel plan," Sarah thought about photographers. There were several in the UK she preferred to work with, but she was hardly likely to have to deal with novices on a project this big. "Tell them they can have their own photographers, but if they only speak Russian, we'll need an interpreter as my Russian is pretty basic."

"Right, then," Milton was resigned. At least he'd tried, and if he could get Sarah back home by the end of August and keep her writing until the end of October, then she'd hopefully be feeling a little too big to want to do too much gadding about after that. "I'll get onto it and be in touch with the details," he said. "Better get your stuff together for Moscow in August."

As soon as he'd ended the call with Sarah, Milton Ajax picked up his phone again and made another call. It wasn't as long as the chat he'd just had with her, but the essential details were very similar. When he'd finished _that_ call, he paused, took a deep breath before picking up his phone a third time to call a very private number. The discussion this time was even briefer, but of all of them, this was the only one that left him feeling as if he might end up in the Tower of London.

 _Moscow in August_. Sarah went through a mental checklist of her current wardrobe that wouldn't be affected by her developing bump. It would probably be blazing hot too, which meant she had the perfect excuse to wear floaty white linens and faded denim cut-offs most of the time. She'd take a couple of smarter things in case she was roped into any evening bashes, though she could always plead her pregnancy to get out of those if she really wanted an escape. She grinned … now _this_ was more like it.

Milt would make sure she had all her visas and permissions, and that she had all the phone numbers of her contacts in case anything went wrong once she was actually over there. Sarah was too old a hand at travelling to expect anything to be absolutely perfect. She frowned to herself as she remembered the debacle with the tall man at Heathrow. If what he said was true and he was the biological father, she wondered why he'd not continued trying to contact her about it. Clearly, if he'd been able to have her detained at the airport, then he had the wherewithal to do it again. Yet surprisingly, she'd not been bothered by anyone other than that one time, though she still felt eyes on the back of her head at the oddest times. Walking down the street to her flat, for example. The entire street empty; no people, no cars, no twitching curtains in bedroom windows, nothing. And _yet_ … The only things that possibly have anything to do with it were the endless number of CCTV cameras that seemed to have popped up everywhere these days, wretched technology that they were. But since the cameras were part of the drive for increased public safety in inner London, complaining wasn't terribly helpful. Sarah realised she was just being paranoid about the whole thing: probably her nerves jumping at shadows.

There were no such shadows as she stepped into the massive and brilliantly sunlit theatre that was Moscow's central Red Square two weeks later. Facing St Basil's cathedral, that most exotic, sixteenth-century church, she swivelled in a complete circle to scan the great high walls of the Kremlin. The two photographers she had met only that morning were pleasant enough. The man Vadim, in his mid-twenties, was the more junior of the two and spoke English with a solid proletarian accent thick enough to cut the trendy black bread she'd had toasted for breakfast that morning. He was good-looking in a young, wispy sort of way, though his attempt at a hipster beard was pitiful. The woman was very different from her male compatriot. In her early thirties, Andrea was dark-haired and beautiful. Smoothly dressed, almost coutured, one might say, she oozed efficiency in her faded jeans, worn desert boots and with a chequered _kaffiyeh_ wrapped around her neck like some wilderness nomad. She carried an expensive phone which was rarely out of her hand or away from her ear. The one thing that marked them both as followers of the same religion was the quality of the optical technology hanging around their necks. Vadim's choice of weapon was a Cannon Eos 5DIII; light, fast and sleek, while Andrea favoured the slightly heftier Nikon D800 with its glorious thirty-six megapixels. Seeing the two of them standing beside her facing the Kremlin and looking for vantage points, Sarah grinned again. How much things had changed in the last fifteen years, and not only the technology.

"Okay, my trusted minions," Sarah handed each photographer a card covered in brief notes. "This is a list of the key themes I'm going to be examining in this assignment, so bear these ideas in mind as we research the attractions my agent agreed with Intourist. Of course," Sarah paused, smiling. "If either if you see something spectacular that I might be able to use in addition to what I've specified, then please go for it; we're all agreed on the usual fees and conditions, and I'd be happy to add a decent premium for anything really unusual that I can use. Any questions before the Intourist people get here?"

"Do we retain intellectual property rights on any images you use?" Vadim was still innocent enough to worry about being ripped-off. Good for him.

"As agreed, you'll be paid the full commercial daily rate and expenses for the time that we're all working together, plus full credit for anything that's used and published," Sarah nodded. "You'll also be credited as the photographer of the image in any subsequent digital publications, which means you can add any of them to your professional portfolio," she added. "But as per the contract, the IP of any published photographs will belong to Intourist or the individual enterprise," she shrugged. "It's the nature of the business," she said. "I don't get to keep my favourite pieces either, but then, that's not why we do this, is it?"

Checking her watch and eager to be started, Sarah swivelled around, looking for the Intourist rep, only to find Andrea's eyes fixed firmly on her. "Is there a problem?" Sarah waited, hoping there wasn't.

"You're pregnant," Andrea's voice held the barest lilt of Mother Russia.

"Well spotted," Sarah grinned, looking down at the definite bulge that not even the floatiest of white cotton tops could completely conceal. "Though pregnant or not, I still seem to be able to write reasonably well," she said. "I promise not to bore you with stories from the obstetrics' couch, or ask you for baby-bump photos," she laughed.

"It suits you," Andrea nodded, lifting the Nikon to her eye; she focused and clicked off a few shots anyway. "You sound happy," she added. "How does your husband feel about you working here in Moscow?"

Laughing again, Sarah shook her head. "Long story," she said. "I'll tell you sometime."

The Intourist official scuttled up to them looking pink-faced and puffed. " _Hello!_ I am called Magda! The traffic here gets worse every year," she said, throwing both hands into the air. "Parking is impossible!"

"But there's great public transport around here, isn't there?" Sarah raised her eyebrows and smiled at the woman's exuberance. "Of course," Magda nodded seriously. "But I was held up in the office and decided to drive instead," she shook her head. "I'll take the tram next time as I usually do!" Though no tram traversed the square, they were handy things for moving around the city, though not as fast at the Metro. Sarah wondered if she could write one of her reviews as a tram-ride.

Adjusting her straw sunhat, checking that she had everything in the large, baggy leather tote slung over her shoulder, Sarah took the sheaves of permissions from the Intourist woman and shoved them into the bag. "Since we're actually here, I'd like a shot or two of the square if we could, but not from any of the conventional angles," Sarah held onto her hat and looked around. "Could we get up there?" she pointed to the top of the State Historical Museum. "There's windows and a solid balcony all the way around near the top," she added. "It would provide a wonderful panorama of the square that people don't often see," she paused, looking hopefully at the exuberant Magda.

"I do not know," she beamed, shrugged voluminously. "But we can find out!" The small group headed off under the hot morning sun.


	3. Three

Her feet were sore, her ankles were swollen and she was dying for a cool shower. Unsurprisingly, given Intourist's desire that everything be given the highest recommendations in the international press, they had all been put up at the St Regis, five minutes' walk from Red Square. The rooms were spectacular and really far too good for the little use they would get over the next week. Still, Sarah wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when such hedonistic luxury was going for free. Dinner was well over an hour away, but she was starving. She could also kill for a nice chilled glass of dry white, but had cut her alcohol intake back to almost nothing since the pregnancy, so she'd just have to do without. As these thoughts were going through her mind, the soft, internal doorbell to the suite rang just as she was peeling off her walking sandals and thinking what to wear for dinner. Everyone had confessed to minor exhaustion after the full day's running around, so dinner in the St Regis main restaurant – not an undue hardship – was agreed.

" _Room service_ ," the voice outside sounded young and female.

Groaning as she hobbled across the expanse of plush carpet to the door, Sarah opened it wide to find a room steward pushing a small silver trolley. Opening the door still further, both trolley and steward entered.

"Compliments of the management," the woman smiled, lifting a large ice-filled wine cooler onto the marble-topped table, along with a long narrow plate containing a range of small _hors d'oeuvres_. Judging by the label, there was a bottle of extremely good French champagne in the cooler.

"I'm so sorry," Sarah groaned out loud with disappointment; life could be so unfair. Iced champagne would have gone down perfectly right about now. "I'm pregnant, and I don't think an entire bottle of fizzy would be such a good idea."

"But naturally, Madam," the steward nodded. "Which is why the St Regis has provided nothing but the very best de-alcoholised champagne for you," she smiled brilliantly. "I promise you," she added. "It is _very_ good. You would probably not even noticed the difference had I not told you," she paused. "Would Madam care to try a glass before dinner?"

Sarah knew she hadn't mentioned she was pregnant in her dealings with Intourist on the phone, and the hotel had been booked long before she arrived. So unless there was someone with eagle-eyes at the main desk when she registered, nobody here would have the slightest clue of her condition; certainly not to the point of arranging non-alcoholic wine.

But her feet hurt and she was hungry and thirsty and it really was a _very_ good champagne label. "That sounds divine," she murmured, watching as the gently foaming _brut cuv_ _é_ _e_ was poured carefully into a tall champagne flute. As the chilled wine beaded moisture on the outside of the glass, Sarah took a sip ... then took another; she sighed long and slow, closing her eyes in bliss. "Are you sure this is non-alcoholic?" she asked. It really did taste exactly like the genuine thing.

"Perfectly sure, Madam," the steward grinned. "Stepan will be here in approximately fifteen minutes to give you a foot massage."

... oh god, her feet did actually hurt.

... but it was taking hedonism _too_ far, surely.

... but she was here to experience everything good about the place.

... and how did they know?

"I haven't booked a foot massage," Sarah sampled more of the glorious wine.

"Really, Madam?" the steward sounded surprised. "He is preparing his materials now," she added. "Shall I cancel the appointment?"

"Not at all," Sarah wondered who her fairy godmother was. "It sounds wonderful, just like this champagne," she smiled. "It just wasn't me that made the booking. Do you know who did?"

"It might be simplest to ask Stepan himself when he gets here," the steward smiled, lifting the bottle, questioningly. "If Madam would care to refresh herself before Stepan arrives, then she might also have a little rest before dinner?" Not even bothering to ask, Sarah nodded, held out her glass for a top-up before walking slowly and stiffly into the bathroom.

Which was another unworldly experience all of its own. With a bath more than large enough for a medium-sized family group, the shower was a huge great opulent beast of shining gold and gold-speckled glass panels. There were more shower heads and nozzles than she knew what to do with, but when she eventually got the thing working Sarah revelled in the torrents of hot water that washed both the city's grime and the day's tiredness away. There was even a shelf inside the shower – next to the metallic-gold wall phone, of course – with a recess for the wine cooler and her glass if she wanted. Sarah shook her head disbelievingly, wondering who came up with these ideas. Drinking champagne and phoning people while taking a shower? What wonderful silliness.

Realising she had to come out and face the world at some point, Sarah wrapped herself in a thick towelling robe and shimmied on a pair of knickers. The steward had gone, but just as Sarah was topping up her glass with the astoundingly good fizzy for the third time while devouring yet another of the little shrimpy _canap_ _é_ _s_. Her doorbell rang again.

Hopefully, this would be the masseur; she was definitely in the right frame of mind for a massage now. Opening the door, she raised her eyebrows at the simply enormous blonde cliché of a Swedish masseur as he strolled through the door pushing a trolley of his own. There were baskets of tightly rolled towels on this one, as well as bottles of oils and all sorts of other mysterious unctions and salves. Hanging on the side of the trolley was a solid-looking padded massage table. Lifting, unfolding and setting the long table up in a single fluid movement, Sarah got the idea that he'd done this before. When all was ready, Stepan stood and waited, looking at her with a faint smile.

The man had to be least six-foot-six. He was _immense_.

"If Madam would care to sit up here," he indicated the bed, just as he threw a thin sheet of clean white linen across the top, fastening it tight at either end so no slipping would occur. Carefully hopping up onto the tall bed, Sarah waited as Stepan adjusted the top section so that she wasn't lying flat, but was slightly elevated. It made her feel very comfortable.

"I have been told you are expecting a child?" Stepan grinned as he fussed with her robe until she was decently covered and perfectly aligned on the massage table. "This is very wonderful news, but can make your joints ache and your feet swell. Have you found this?"

Sarah had, a bit, but not anything really to complain about. "Sometimes."

And now he had her left foot in his great paw of a hand. Sarah had always thought her feet were long, in keeping with her height, but next to Stepan's hands, her foot was the daintiest little morsel. His long fingers simply engulfed the limb. Gently turning her ankle this way and that, it wasn't hard to see it was puffy and red and uncomfortable. It was also hot. Placing a cold-water soaked towel over one ankle to cool it down, Stepan rubbed several ice-cubes between his hands for a moment before pressing them gently against Sarah's other sore foot. The relief was instant and she couldn't have stopped the deep sigh of pleasure if she'd tried. Massaging always upwards towards her knee, Stepan spent the next fifteen minutes restoring her aching, hot and puffy feet to something far more normal.

"Madam needs to rest now, before she has a good healthy dinner of fish and potatoes, with apple pudding." He nodded seriously. "Your baby needs good foods to be strong and tall like me," he grinned suddenly.

"Madam doesn't think she can move, let along eat anything," she groaned, not wanting to disturb the sense of relaxation she'd cultivated.

"This is not a problem," Stepan looked helpful, lifting up his arms. "If Madam would permit?"

"I think I'd permit almost anything right about now," Sarah murmured, her eyes closed as she felt herself beginning to drift.

In the next second, she'd been lifted lightly off the massage table and deposited just as lightly on her bed. In the second after that, Stepan had put a pillow beneath her newly restored ankles. "Rest for ten minutes before moving," he instructed, pouring her some more champagne and bringing the tray of nibbles close by. "And then you will be able to dance all night."

Sarah laughed. Her dancing days were behind her for a while. Just being able to walk without aching feet would be sufficient. "Thank you Stepan," she smiled as he packed his things away. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again before I leave."

As the huge man packed his thing away so neatly and efficiently, Sarah wondered again who had booked the massage for her and if she should ask him. First the dealcoholized wine, and now Stepan, the _Ubermensch_ who had restored her feet to life. There was something odd going on here, though there was obviously some straightforward explanation for everything. But she could worry about that later; she was too relaxed to think about anything right now. Half-an-hour later, after clearing the plate of snacks and making some real inroads into the icy wine, Sarah realised it was about time she behaved like a responsible adult and got sufficiently dressed to have dinner in public.

Having brought only two semi-elegant outfits, her choice was limited, but she wasn't bothered. One thing about being pregnant was you never had to worry about choosing comfort over fashion. Slipping on a long, deep purply-blue kaftan, she knotted up her hair in a heavy roll, before tying a fine scarf with the same blue colour as the kaftan around her head almost turban-style. Just as she was putting on a touch of lipstick, he erstwhile passenger who clearly had felt out of things, decided to give his or her first serious kick.

Sarah was thankful she hadn't been in the middle of putting on mascara, as she'd have been covered in the stuff. She waited for another kick, a smile stretching her face, but that was to be all the action it seemed, for now.

"Well hello in there," she smiled down at her stomach. "I wondered when I'd be hearing from you. Let's go sample some Moscow highlife, shall we?"

Grabbing a small evening clutch, she dropped her key card inside, along with some tissues, her lipstick and her phone. Heading down the passageway to the lift, Sarah thanked all the saints for Stepan's magic fingers, promising herself to book him every night she was here if it was possible. Feeling refreshed from the shower and the food and the sparkling wine and invigorated by the massage, she almost felt she could dance all night, though with an early start in the morning, it might not be the most realistic idea.

Magda had apologised, but said her husband was unwell and so she wouldn't be joining them for dinner. Vadim had gone off to take some pictures of the sunset against the classic Imperial Russian architecture, which gave Sarah and Andrea the dinner table to themselves.

"You look quite lovely," Andrea raised a glass of dark red wine in salute as Sarah reached the table. "I have often wondered what people meant when they said women glowed during their pregnancy, and now I can see it for myself," she smiled, taking the phone away from her ear and clicking off a photo. I'll make you a gift of all these when all this is finished," she added, laying the device flat down on the table.

"I felt the baby kick for the first time as I was getting ready for dinner," Sarah laughed, still thrilled by the experience.

"Do you know what it is yet?" Andrea picked up one of the Italian-style menus and glanced down the list of delicacies written in English and Russian. "After so much walking today, I am hungry for something rich and full of carbohydrates."

"My doctor keeps telling me I need more iron, so I need to eat either oysters, beef pâté or spinach as often as I can," Sarah also scanned the menu. "But I'm afraid spinach isn't going to get the job done tonight, I'm starving."

"Then oysters it is," Andrea smiled. "And some local _biftek?_ "

"I have it on good authority I also need to eat apple pudding to keep my strength up," Sarah smiled again. "And I found out tonight that Moët et Chandon make the most superb no-alcohol champagne, which is wild: I've never seen it before, have you?"

"Not many places have it," Andrea sipped her red wine. "Only those who can afford to lease the _terroir_ as well as purchase the vintage," she said. "Moët would rather die than admit they sell champagne on the open market without the alcohol."

"Then my lips are sealed, but I shall certainly be trying some more of it when I can," Sarah sighed and relaxed into the very comfortable dining chair. "And to answer your first question, no, not yet. I'm not even sure I really want to know before he or she arrives; I really couldn't care less about the sex of the baby, as long as it's healthy and safe for me to look after," she poured herself cold water from the table carafe. A waiter approached.

"Will you allow me to order for us both?" Andrea looked at her. "I will be able to arrange the very best biftek."

"Go right ahead," smiling, Sarah listened as the younger woman rattled off an entire shopping list of requirements in sophisticated Russian, making her wonder just how much food was being ordered.

"There," Andrea reached for her glass again as the waiter refilled it for her. "I think you will be pleased with the selection of food here," she said. "It is usually very good."

"You eat here regularly?" Sarah looked around the imperial splendour of the place, with its marble walls, Etruscan gilding and acres of mirrors everywhere she turned. It seemed an expensive place for a freelance photographer to frequent.

"Only when I get a good contract like this," Andrea paused as the waiter returned with a second bottle of red wine which he displayed to Sarah.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not able to drink at the moment, I …"

"No, no," Andrea stopped her. "This is not wine, it is a local blend of blackcurrant and cherry juice which the children drink; it's both pleasant and healthy with very little sugar in it at all. You'll like it, I think."

Watching as the waiter produce a tall cocktail glass which he filled with crushed ice before pouring in a decent level of the rich red liquid and adding some chopped fresh mint and a tiny straw. Both the waiter and Andrea watched as she took a tentative sip. It was delicious, hardly sweet at all.

"This is fantastic, thank you," Sarah smiled up at the waiter who smiled in some relief, making her wonder exactly what Andrea had said to him before. "Tastes a bit like Beaujolais."

There was little time to compare the tastes of wine before the waiter returned with a silver trolley stacked high with small, covered dishes which he proceeded to display across the table.

"Caviar, oysters, mussels and Black Sea crab," Andrea announced, pleased. "There is enough iron on this table right now to rebuild London's Tower Bridge," she smiled as she reached for the caviar and some lemon slices. "You must eat," she waved at Sarah's plate. "Or I will be worried for you; I think perhaps you might have done too much today."

 _Had Andrea been responsible for Stepan of the Magic Hands?_

"I have had the most wonderful treatment at this hotel," she said off-handedly. "Apart from a fantastic room, I've been waited on hand-and-foot, quite literally," she smiled. "I might never want to leave Russia."

Diving into the caviar and tiny pieces of toast, Andrea blinked. "I know you are widely travelled," she said. "I have read many of your stories and all of your books."

"No matter how well I think I know a place, every time I return, there's something new and wonderful to see and learn about it," Sarah shrugged. "Moscow, for instance. It's a grand place."

"But not as grand as London, surely?" Andrea looked a little doubtful. "Or are you simply making conversation?"

Sampling the crab, which melted like sea-foam in her mouth, Sarah gazed across the table at her Russian colleague. "I've been toying with the idea of having the baby in New York," she paused, thoughtfully. "I'm in the States quite a lot and having dual nationality wouldn't be a bad thing for any child to have."

Only moments later, Andrea's phone buzzed on the table between them as a text arrived.

"Excuse me," she said. "This message is rather urgent," looking down; her fingers fairly flew across the tiny keypad. It couldn't have been that terrible a message as Sarah noticed there was a distinct smile on the photographer's mouth.

Trying several of the mussels and more of the oysters, she looked around the rather grand surroundings. Nothing, it seemed, had escaped a brush with the _rococo._ Coils of gilded marble and ornate sinuous plaster vines winding up every wall and around each window and door.

"Sorry," Andrea still had something of a smile on her face. "My manager likes to keep abreast of my progress," she said, replacing her phone in the middle of the table. "He becomes agitated when he thinks things are not going the way he imagines they should," she paused. "Are you quite sure about the dual-nationality thing? Don't you want your child to be born in London where all your doctors are?"

Swirling the straw around in her drink, Sarah wrinkled her nose. "Not sure, to be honest," she said. "I'm still in two minds over the whole thing. I even had the idea of booking a round-the-world cruise and having the child on board; that would make it a real citizen of the world," she grinned.

Moments later, Andrea's phone buzzed again. "I'm sorry," she shrugged. "Same caller. He seems to be having a major upset tonight. Hang on." Though she tried not to watch, it was hard for Sarah not to see Andrea was having to bite her lip not to laugh aloud. There was clearly something vastly amusing about the messages her manager was sending.

"Do freelancers have managers in Russia?" Sarah asked curiously, when the photographer eventually laid her phone back down in the middle of the table. "I thought the whole point of being freelance was to do without such ties? I've made it a rule never to connect myself too closely with any specific organisation for just this reason," she tried some of the caviar and wondered if she could do a story on Russian caviar-making. It was magnificent.

"Yet you have a very close relationship with your agent, I hear," Andrea allowed the waiter to pour her some more red wine. "Is he handsome and wonderful?" she smiled teasingly as she changed the subject.

"Milt?" Sarah almost laughed, but stopped herself. Whatever else he might be, Milton Ajax deserved nothing but her respect. "Milton is indeed a wonderful man and I count myself marvellously fortunate to ever have met him," she said. "He's also in his fifties and an absolute stickler for contracts which just about drive me bonkers," she smiled.

"Then do you have another man in your life?" Andrea waved her glass in the direction of Sarah's tummy. "That little give-away suggests you do."

Grinning, Sarah leaned forward and began to tell her story.

###

The Moscow gig was over far too quickly for her liking. It have been a total blast working with both the local photographers; Vadim's spectacular sunset series ended up being worthy of its very own piece. As Sarah readied herself to leave, for the first time since she arrived more than a week before, she burst into tears, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly, weepy and dithery.

"I'm sorry," her voice choked as she hugged a self-conscious Vadim goodbye. "I'll be sure to ask for you in any future engagements," she said, as she turned to Andrea, who looked so sympathetic that Sarah burst into a fresh deluge. "I'm _so_ sorry," she sniffled as Andrea hugged her close. "I really don't do this kind of thing usually."

"I'm sure we'll meet again," Andrea commiserated, handed her a tissue. "I'm almost sure of it, in fact."

"Let me know if you come to London," Sarah wiped her eyes, then stopped, surprised. "I don't think my passenger wants to leave either," she said, taking Andrea's hand and pressing the palm against her side. There was a second hard kick which had the photographer smiling as she stepped back to snap off another photo. "I'll be sending these to you soon," she said as she walked away. "I've got your private email address."

So focused on making sure she got all her things back to London on the same flight, it was more than six hours later, as Sarah touched down at Heathrow, that it occurred to her to wonder how Andrea could have found her private email. The account she used for all work contacts was through a secure service that Milt ran for all his clients. How entirely odd. Andrea must have made a mistake; nobody knew her private email.

###

It was the middle of October and London was grey, grey, grey. Rain had been falling steadily for over a week and reports of flash-flooding in low-lying regional areas were on the national news every night. It made her feel more melancholy and moody than she had been for weeks. Realising she couldn't do much else, not that Milt would give her anything else to do, Sarah worked in the small office of her flat, finishing off the last proofs from the Russian trip. Even though the commission had been great fun, Sarah was rather glad it was all behind her now, as she felt increasingly tired with every passing day. The work had gone more smoothly than she had thought possible; both sets of images from Andrea and Vadim coming through without a hitch, either technical, financial or political. The writing, proofing and the editing flowed easily and, as a result, the project was virtually over and done with; a thought that, if she'd had the energy to spare, might have made her feel sadder still. Completing anything so far ahead of schedule would normally have her celebrating, but all Sarah felt now was depressed, wanting to cry for the most inconsequential of reasons. Anni Mandal told her it was all to do with hormones, perfectly natural and that things would calm down, but that she also needed to rest and take things easy as much as she could. Sarah was suddenly desperate to have all the writing done with now so that she could simply close her eyes and think of nothing. Sending off the last of the proofed pages to Intourist, who seemed very pleased with the results thus far, she sat back and wondered what she could do to cheer herself up.

Deciding to try and round up the last of her obligations quickly because tiredness dragged at her now even to the point where concentration faded, Sarah found herself gazing out of the window at nothing and everything. In the last couple of weeks, she'd found it difficult to eat her usual helpings of food and had begun instead to nibble bits here and there. Anni seemed mostly happy with everything the way it was, though she mentioned that Sarah was relatively thin and could afford to put on a little more weight with her height. The delivery was still on course for the end of December. The baby was active and growing fast now and after that last proof was sent, Sarah decided to venture out to find some stretchier black leggings as none of her others would fit any more.

Finding her coat and bag and phone, she wandered around the corner from her flat into Barnsbury Street, looking for a cab. Letting her mental state float, Sarah was somewhat perturbed to find herself in the maternity section of Mothercare in Oxford Street, with little awareness of how she had reached the place. As well as the increasing tiredness and finding it hard to eat the way she knew she should, now she seemed to be losing track of where she was. Finding a wide wooden seat at the junction of several wide aisles, she sat down and felt the tears rise yet again.

Fortunately, the sales assistants were well-practiced with the frailties and vagaries of pregnancy and were able to get her what she needed with little fuss and enormous empathy. Refusing the offer of a taxi, Sarah dried her tears and, taking her small packages, decided to have a little walk in the fresh air before she grabbed a cab home. Though it was only October, shining Christmas decorations were already visible in the main street shops, which made her unbearably nostalgic and even more illogically tearful. She walked aimlessly down Oxford Street not really conscious of where she was going.

Finding an empty bench near Marble Arch tube station, on the corner of Cumberland Place, Sarah sat down and felt broody and heavy and miserable. She was drained and out of sorts, her feet hurt, the weather was rotten and she had nobody apart from Milt with whom to share her problems. Not that this wasn't exactly how she had wanted things to be, but right at this minute, Sarah wished she had someone else in her corner. However, she had made her bed, and now she had to be a big girl and do whatever it was that big girls had to do. An elderly man sat down at the other end of the bench, nodded at her and immediately opened a paper and ignored her completely. He had a fat little beagle on a lead, which sat on the pavement at the man's feet.

"Hello, doggy," Sarah leaned down to make friends with the animal. Beagles were really happy creatures; she had read that somewhere, and right now, she desperately wanted a moment's friendship, even a dog's.

The beagle looked up at her, sniffed her outstretched hand and looked away. Apparently, not even a dog wanted anything to do with her, and Sarah felt the tears well up, hot and thick as she sat on a public bench outside Marble Arch station and wept.

"Come now," a strong hand reached out and cupped her elbow. "What's the matter? Are you all right? Why are you crying?"

Looking up through bleary eyes, Sarah saw the tall man from the airport, but she just didn't have the energy to tell him to go away. What was he even doing here, anyway?

"The dog won't talk to me," she sobbed, feeling utterly desolate.

"Oh, dear lord. Come with me and I'll take you home. You can't stay here."

"I don't want to go home," Sarah dug around in her bag for any remaining dry tissues, but there were none. This made her feel even more useless. A pristine white handkerchief was pressed into her hand which she used to cover her entire face, feeling horribly embarrassed now, as well as miserable and a complete mess.

"Do you need to see your doctor?" the man asked. "Are you unwell?"

Sarah heard the click of a car-door opening and felt, rather than saw herself being helped into a wide back seat that smelled like new leather and lemon cream polish.

"I'm not unwell, I just don't feel good," she said.

"Which makes perfect sense, I suppose," his tone was dry but not severe. "If you're quite sure you don't wish to be taken home and you're equally sure you don't want to stay here, how would you feel about a drive into the countryside for a little while? Get away from this dreary London damp?"

For the first time, Sarah stopped thinking about being miserable and actually looked at the man. He was indeed the same one who had tried to have her detained at the airport and who had put his rolled up jacket under her head when she fainted. He still looked and sounded terribly well-dressed in his elegant dark suit and coat, and quite above the mundanity of a snivelling pregnant woman, but he was definitely being ... kind.

"Why would you want to take me for a drive anywhere?" she sniffed, knowing she was not appearing at her dazzling best. "You don't know me, I don't know you, I'm going to be rotten company and I'll probably start crying again," Sarah blotted her tears with the handkerchief and blew her nose. "Besides, I don't like you very much."

"Indeed. You consider me vile and obnoxious as I recall," he said, helping her belt in, narrowing his eyes as he saw the tears renewing themselves. "Is the crying for any particular reason?" he asked. "Or are you making a political statement of some kind?"

It was such a ludicrous question that Sarah had to smile as the car pulled quietly away from the kerb and she realised the car had a driver. "Where are we going?" she wiped her eyes enough to watch the shopfronts whizz past.

"Kent's rather pleasant at this time of the year," he said," and do, please, call me Mycroft."

"Kent?" Sarah would have been startled if she had the energy for it. "We're going to Kent? Isn't that a long way for a drive?"

"We'll be there in time for afternoon tea, and I can easily have you back to London before the six o'clock news," he said. "And the name's Mycroft, by the way."

"I'm Sarah Lawrence," she said. "But then you already knew that when you tried to have me arrested at Heathrow."

"There was never any question of an arrest," he said, carefully. "I simply wanted to talk with you and, most unusually, made a complete hash of the whole thing for which I can only claim exculpating circumstances. I would have given you my deepest apologies had you stayed long enough to hear them."

There was a pause.

"What exculpating circumstances?"

There was another quite lengthy pause. Mycroft cleared his throat, raised his eyes to the roof of the car and sighed weightily. "I confess to being inexplicably nervous and hesitant; a feeling so foreign that I overcompensated rather drastically. I've never had ... this situation is entirely unique."

The silence between them allowed that comment to be digested.

"Are you really the biological father?" Sarah deliberately looked out of the window, watching as shopfronts gave way to more commercial buildings and slightly wider streets. The handkerchief was scrunched tight in her fingers.

There was another pause.

"I am, Ms Lawrence. I would not mislead you on such a point."

"The man you sent to speak with me at the clinic is a bully," Sarah kept her head turned away. "He made me cross."

"I am aware that none of this has really gone the way it should have done," Mycroft sighed gustily. "Is it possible for us to start afresh, perhaps? On neutral terms and see where we go from there?"

Sarah hadn't spoken to anyone new for this long in weeks and, she had to admit, it felt good. While she was still grumpy, talking to anyone was better than being miserable by herself.

"I won't be intimidated by anyone," she warned. "And I'm not promising to agree to anything."

"Naturally." There was the merest hint of amusement in his voice.

Turning away from the window to look him directly in the eye for the first time, Sarah inhaled deeply and held out her hand. "My name is Sarah Lawrence and I write travel stories."

"I am Mycroft Holmes and I work for the government," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "Delighted to finally make your acquaintance."

"Why Kent?" Sarah realised they were already well down the Old Kent Road and there were more street-side trees visible even in the grey afternoon. The skyline around them grew lower and lower as all the high-rise buildings were left behind. Amazingly, a feeble sun came out and the ivy-walled roadways suddenly seemed not too shabby after all. Once they hit Sidcup Road, they were out in open countryside. She suddenly felt dizzy, her hand reaching out to grab the door rest as if to stop herself falling forward.

"When was the last time you ate?" Mycroft was leaning forward too, his hands busy with something in the back of the driver's seat.

"This morning. I had some toast," Sarah closed her eyes and breathed deeply, willing the spinning sensation away.

"Here, sip some water and eat these," Mycroft handed her a small bottle of water with the top already off, and a bag of unsalted peanuts. He also held out the tiniest glass of what could only be brandy; the aromatic perfume of the spirit filling the car.

"I'm not drinking alcohol at the moment," Sarah glugged some water.

"A small mouthful will do no harm whatsoever and it may focus you a little," he said, pressing the glass into her hand.

Lacking sufficient energy to mount even a feeble resistance, she took the glass and sipped, the scorching liquid burning through her like a Saharan blizzard. " _Oh_ ," she gasped, lifting her head and blinking rapidly. "That's fierce."

"I doubt Mr Hennessy would appreciate such an adjective," Mycroft watched as her expression sharpened, assuming a more pointed concentration. "Better?"

"Actually, yes," Sarah took another tiny sip. "Better. Thank you."

"Hmmm," Mycroft put the empty glass away and removed a small notebook from his inner jacket pocket. Flicking through a couple of pages, he frowned slightly as he read. "Your obstetrician notes that you are at the lower safe end of the scale for weight at this point in the pregnancy," he murmured, "though the baby seems perfectly well," he added. "You have been neglecting yourself."

The words sank in, a little more slowly than usual. They made no sense. _How on earth would he know anything about her?_

"If I had the energy, I'd be unconditionally furious at your continuing interference," she growled fractiously. "Just what is it you _do_ in the government?" she asked, returning to stare through the car window, observing that the winter-thinned hedgerows were rising high on both sides of them now. "Or do you simply find it easier to bribe everyone privately?" she asked, turning back to meet his gaze again. "Did anyone ever tell you it's horribly impolite to spy on people?"

"My mother advises me of this on a regular basis," Mycroft sounded entirely unconcerned as he tucked the small book back inside his jacket. "But it does sound as if you've been taking less than spectacular care of yourself, I'm afraid."

"Which is entirely _my_ prerogative," Sarah felt well enough now to put up at least a show of opposition. "My wellbeing or otherwise has absolutely _nothing_ to do with you whatsoever, and if you can't accept that _right now_ , then you can just turn this car around and take me straight back to London."

Sarah could hear him inhaling slowly.

"My apologies again," Mycroft rubbing his forehead between fingers and thumb of one hand. "It is very difficult for me not to ... intervene ... when I see things are not at an optimal level," he said. "Please forgive me for being concerned about you."

 _Why would he be concerned? It clearly wasn't her wellbeing that bothered him ... ah ..._ of course.

"The baby will be perfectly fine, you needn't worry," Sarah rested her head back against the superb cushioning and closed her eyes. "I'm doing everything the best way I can and the baby will be fine, so you can stop wondering if I'm going to be a bad mother."

This time she heard a slow _ex_ hale but whether it was of annoyance or relief, she had no idea, nor did she much care.

Just under an hour after leaving the confines of London, the car turned into the white-gravelled driveway of an oxblood painted farmhouse. There was a small copse of bare-branched fruit trees on one side of the drive and a well-dug patch of vegetable garden to the right. The house was old, seventeenth-century; two stories high, but long and narrow with the typically small windows of the late Elizabethan period. There was a heavily covered porch above the wide front door.

"Where are we?" Sarah thought at first it might be some country café, though she could see no signage.

Stepping out and around the car and opening her door before she was able to effect her own exit, Mycroft offered her his hand. "This place does a very reasonable afternoon cream tea," he said, standing with his hand outstretched. "Are you going to come inside, or are we going to sit in the car for the next hour?"

Realising it was going to be difficult, not to mention ungainly if she tried to struggle out by herself, Sarah sighed, but allowed him to help her up onto her feet. Her centre of balance was all to hell and back with this growing balloon in front of her, but she'd be damned if she'd let him see her at a disadvantage. "Not used to such soft seats," she said, closing the car door behind her. "Is this a café?"

"Of a sort," Mycroft nodded to the uniformed driver who immediately returned to the car, turning it until he could head out of the drive.

"Is he going to park in some layby somewhere, waiting for his master's call?" Sarah asked sarcastically, noticing the car for the first time as she watched it vanish down the lane. It was a very sleek and expensive Jaguar. Stylish and quietly tasteful, just like its owner. She paused, wondering where _that_ thought had come from.

"Jack usually heads for the village pub about now," Mycroft flicked open the silver hunter he still wore chained to his waistcoat. "He has a number of friends in the area so I doubt he'll be bored waiting for us. Shall we?" he gestured to the front door which was in the process of opening. A white-haired woman wrapped in a bright floral housecoat and baggy jeans stepped out, wiping her hands on a tea-towel as she did. "Mycroft?"

"Hello, Mummy," he leaned down and kissed her cheek. "We were in the area and I thought it would be nice to pop in for a cup of tea."


	4. Four

_Mummy?_

"Well, of course, my dear," at the automatic reply, Sarah knew the words were addressed to the man, but the older woman's fascinated gaze never left her other visitor for a second. Everything had been observed, analysed and assessed, from the tousled hair on the top of Sarah's head; the pink eyes and tear-ravaged mascara, to the soft leather boots on her feet and the unmistakable bump in the middle. Especially the bump. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

Smiling an impeccably polite smile, Mycroft glanced between the two of them. "Mummy, this is Sarah Lawrence, a writer of travel stories," he paused, turning. "Sarah, this is my mother, Lillian Holmes, Mathematician and maker of extraordinarily good scones."

"How very lovely to meet you," Lillian Holmes smiled right up to her eyes, extending a careful hand to Sarah's elbow. "I don't believe Mycroft's ever brought any of his ... friends ... home before, please, please come in this instant and I'll put the kettle on."

"Where's father?" Ushering the two women into the house, Mycroft closed the door behind him.

"Daddy's out in the shed sawing up logs for the fire, dear," Lillian beckoned them both into the long kitchen, homely with old copper pans on the wall and the occasional bunches of dried herbs hanging from hooks. "Would you go and call him in? I'm sure he'd love to hear about Ms Lawrence's writing."

Watching Mycroft exit the kitchen via a back door, Sarah found herself alone with his mother. _What a rat-bastard thing for him to do_. "Would you like some help?" she asked, uselessly looking around. "I could get out the cups or something?"

"Oh no, my dear child," the older woman was still all smiles. "Having visitors from town all the way down here is a real treat," she said. "And we normally have a spot of tea round about now, and a few extra plates and things are no effort at all," she said. "Have a seat and rest yourself," she added. "You're probably feeling the weight now ... not long to go, I'd say, are you?"

"End of December, so I'm told," Sarah walked around the wide kitchen space, both hands pressed hard into the small of her back which ached a little from sitting in the car. The view from the kitchen windows was of a long rear garden and some large outbuildings off to the left. Beyond the garden fence lay nothing but fields and distant trees. "And everything's fine, though I seem to be crying a lot and my feet seem to swell up all the time, which is annoying."

Stopping what she was doing, Lillian looked concerned. "I hope your doctor is keeping an eye on your blood pressure," she said. "It's often the cause for swollen ankles; I had the same problem myself with both Mycroft and Sherlock."

"Mycroft has a brother?" Sarah turned to look at the short woman wondering what the brother of such a man might be like. Nothing normal, she'd bet on it. And yet the mother seemed so ordinary and _nice_.

"I see my eldest son has been playing his usual game of keeping things very much to himself," Lillian shook her head as she piled crockery and silverware on the table. "Such a clever boy ... such a difficult man," she sighed, pausing and clearly making up her mind about something. "If it's not too indelicate a question," she said slowly. "May I ask how you two know each other?" Lillian put down a handful of butter knives. "He's never brought a woman home to meet us, you see," she said, awkwardly, sliding into a seat. "And it's impossible not to see that you're ..." she waved briefly at Sarah's swollen abdomen. "And he said that you're a travel writer, so you're not a colleague he works with in Whitehall; and I'm his mother and I love him dearly, which means I can't possibly help but wonder if you and he are ..." she paused again, an agonised look of hope in her eyes.

Taking one of the other old kitchen chairs, Sarah realised this was why Mycroft had vanished. He was leaving it up to her to decide how much his mother should know about the situation.

... it would be best not to say anything about the connection between them.

... she hadn't wanted a man in her life from the very beginning, and if she wasn't very careful, she'd end up with a complete family.

... make it clear that there was no link between Mycroft and her; don't lead his mother down an impossible pathway. This was _not_ going to be her grandchild.

... but it _was_ her grandchild.

... did she have the right to deny a child any extended family whatsoever?

... but it was what she had planned from the _beginning_ ...

Sarah sat at the Holmes kitchen table and closed her eyes knowing she was probably about to make a mistake and that she had no choice.

"Your son is the biological father of my child," she said quietly. "Though we're not together in the way that fact might suggest," she added. "We're not romantically together. I don't even like him all that much to be honest."

Lillian's hands had flown to her mouth in shocked delight at Sarah's first words, only to freeze into stillness by the end of the sentence. Saying nothing, she fetched two cups and saucers, pouring the hot golden tea and pushing sugar, milk and lemon across the table for Sarah to reach. Settling herself into the nearest chair, the older woman took a deep breath as if to brace herself.

"Tell me everything," she said.

###

"Which is why I told the vicar not to bother cutting the yews back this year," a male voice, light in pitch and tone sounded as the back door to the kitchen swung in and opened wide. "Oh; _hello_ ," a tall, cardiganed, grey-haired man carrying an armful of newly cut logs walked into the warmed room where the two women sat at the table wearing expressions that announced Things had been discussed. Mycroft was immediately behind him. "Mycroft tells me you're a friend who writes about travelling," the older man smiled hugely. "How wonderful; I used to do a fair bit of travelling myself," he added cheerfully. "Have you been to the Riviera? We should compare notes on the ..."

"Daddy, do please be quite for a minute," the Holmes matriarch waved William Holmes into silence. "Sarah here is pregnant with Mycroft's child," Lillian was clearly not the type to mince words. "Although neither of them planned it to happen this way and now, even though she's perfectly content to manage everything all by herself, she's finding it a little hard to cope at present, yet feels too awkward about the situation to ask anyone for help, especially Mycroft, whom she considers rather rude and overbearing," she paused, smiling benignly. "Did I get everything right, dear?" Lillian smiled calmly across at Sarah and sipped her refreshed tea, looking entirely harmless.

 _Now she knew where he got it from._

Puffing out her cheeks as she exhaled, faintly embarrassed at the older woman's unapologetic candour, Sarah fiddled with her teaspoon and nodded. "I'd say so," she agreed, slowly. "You son has offered to assist financially with the child, but frankly I don't need money and I didn't enter into this arrangement to have a partner-by-default, nor am I interested in forming an after-the-fact relationship with my child's father ..." Sarah felt her throat grow tight and her eyes ... treacherous things ... begin to burn again. "But I feel so tired all the time and I can't seem to stop crying and I'm being unspeakably pathetic about everything," she covered her face with both hands and felt her skin burn with embarrassment.

"My _dear_ child," Lillian was around the table at a speed that belied her age, with an arm around Sarah's shoulders before anyone else could move. "You are _not_ to feel upset by all this," she said. "This is _not_ your fault," Lillian sent Mycroft a look of daggers which had his eyebrows reaching for the sky. "Come now," Lillian helped Sarah to her feet. "A little nap will be just the thing to help you feel better, and then we'll have some dinner and then we'll see what's the best thing to do next, alright?"

Walking into the big parlour with the younger woman beside her, Lillian knew unquestionably that Mycroft had somehow made this problem worse; she would get to the bottom of it come what may. Her son was a darling boy, but there were times when he could out-tantrum Sherlock, and this _poor_ girl was obviously caught in the middle ...

"There," she said, getting Sarah stretched out on the long chintz sofa with a soft cushion under her head and a bright crocheted blanket pulled up and over her shoulders. "You just close your eyes for a few minutes and relax; we'll find a proper solution to all of this, don't you worry." Drawing the heavy curtains against the already-fading afternoon light, Lillian realised Sarah was asleep even before she'd left the room. The child must be exhausted.

Returning to the kitchen where the two men were sipping tea in silence, Lillian stood with both hands on her hips. "That girl needs help, Mykie," she looked hard at her eldest son. "Whether or not you two are a couple or ever will be, or whether you cannot stand the sight of each other is absolutely irrelevant when there's a child involved. Whatever resolution is found for this situation, let it be understood as of _right this moment_ , that I will not have that sweet girl upset, nor will I accept not having her as part of this family in whatever way that feels comfortable for her. Am I understood?"

"I did attempt to offer her help from the very beginning," Mycroft spoke quietly, determined to clear his name of this unjust calumny.

"You offered her _money_ , Mykie," Lillian sounded exasperated. "Which, by all accounts, is the very last thing Sarah needs."

"I'm sure Mycroft had the best of intentions, Mother," the elder Holmes sat at the kitchen table beside his son. "But I must say, the idea of having a grandchild after virtually having given up on the idea would be rather jolly," Holmes senior smiled happily over his teacup. "I could show him how to fish in the river."

"There's an equal chance it might be a girl," Mycroft poured more tea and sat back, his mouth pursed in thought.

"Then I'll teach _her_ how to fish," the older man smiled again. "With both you and Sarah being so tall, any offspring of yours will be able to walk across the river without any problem," he said. "Boy _or_ girl."

"Yes, quite, my love," Lillian Holmes retook her seat and reclaimed the teapot. "The question now, is how to convince Sarah not to bolt away, especially when the dear girl's probably going to need as much help and support as she can get. Is she estranged from her own family?"

Mycroft shook his head and sipped his tea. "There's no extant family that my people have been able to trace," he said. "Which rather suggests there aren't any to be found."

"That poor child," Lillian looked troubled as she topped up her cup. "No wonder she wanted someone all of her own," her mouth compressed in understated sympathy.

"You could always invite her to stay here with you for a while," sounding almost disinterested about the whole thing, Mycroft checked the watch hanging from its fob. Jack would soon be wondering where everyone was. "Nothing too official or permanent; just a few days of peace and quiet, out in the nice, fresh air of the Kent countryside," his eyes wandered innocently upwards until they met his mother's gaze. "If nothing else, Sarah is punctilious about the care of the baby and while she verges unhealthily on the stoic, the idea that by looking after herself a little better, she'd also be helping the child might be a successful ploy."

"That's a brilliant idea!" Holmes senior leaned back from the table folding his arms, a wide smile stretching his mobile features. "Give the girl a chance to get some proper rest. She can have the big downstairs guest room so she doesn't have to navigate the stairs all the time."

"Actually, I think it would be better to put her up in my old room," Mycroft pulled out his phone to text his driver. _Delayed another hour_. "Sarah is by no means going to be inconvenienced by a small flight of stairs."

"Your room?" Lillian's disbelief was immediate and profound. "The _Sanctum sanctorum?_ The room that, for the past twenty years, I have been expressly forbidden to change lest I defile its unspoiled natural beauty? _That_ room?"

"Perhaps it's about time it saw some use, then?" Mycroft's words held a note of acerbity as he leaned forward, snagging one of his mother's warm scones. "Besides," he flicked a crumb from his finger. "I have my reasons."

"You and your schemes," Lillian looked from her son to her husband. "How do you feel about tidying up Mycroft's den, Bill?"

"No …" Mycroft frowned slightly, his eyes distant. "Leave everything the way it is," he said. "The minute you start changing things around, Sarah's going to wonder about it being artificial and atypical," he pushed out his lower lip. "Put her in my old room by all means, but leave everything thing just as it is."

Knowing both her sons to be superior tacticians, Lillian pondered her eldest's thinking; there was clearly some strategy at play here, but as yet, there were insufficient clues to give any indication of its ultimate shape. "And you've not even told us why were you using that medical centre yourself," her eyebrows wrinkled on her forehead. "Is there something else I should know about that place?" she asked. "It all sounds a bit devious to me. Is this to do with clones? Is it to do with your work?"

Sitting back and allowing his eyes to roll faintly skyward, Mycroft sighed. "It's all rather classified, mother, but the research centre stands in the full sight of the world and there's nothing remotely untoward going on, I promise you."

"Well, in that case, you can fetch some clean linen and make the bed if you are so keen to have Sarah stay in your room," Lillian stared her son down. "Don't imagine for a second that you'll be waited on hand-and-foot here, my lad," she walked over to the kettle. "I'll make some fresh tea, I think."

"Of course, if Sarah's as self-sufficient as you claim, she might not want to stay with us at all, did you think of that, you two conspirators?" Mycroft's father got up to feed another couple of logs into the kitchen range. "And we can't expect her to stay here simply because _we_ think it's a good idea."

"You leave that part to me," Lillian frowned again. "Though it means she'll need to go home to pack a bag and then come back down here again," she nibbled a thumbnail. "That's a lot of travelling in one day. Perhaps it might be better if she went back up to London with you tonight, but came down again at the weekend?"

"You'll have to strike while the iron is hot, mother," Mycroft finished his tea and got to his feet to raid the linen cupboard. "If Sarah returns to London tonight, you'll probably not see her again for a considerable time; she is the most self-determining and intractable of women."

"No wonder I like her already," Lillian smiled. "When you change your bed, make sure there's nothing in the room that might terrify the unwary visitor, and I'll go and see if she's awake yet," she turned to her husband. "Bill, can you put some of those frozen bread rolls I made to heat through in the oven and put the pot of soup on the stove? I think some good, old-fashioned country food is exactly what the doctor would order tonight," she added, heading out through the kitchen door towards the parlour.

Sarah was in the process of sitting up when the door opened in the semi-dark room.

"Feeling any better, my dear?" Lillian switched on a tall lamp standing by the door, its gentle yellow glow easy on newly wakened eyes.

"I am," Sarah smiled groggily as she rubbed her face. "Though I could probably have slept the whole night away in here," she said looking around at the shadow-dimmed furniture and the heavy curtains cloaking the walls. "It's so peaceful and everything is so cosy. It's lovely, thank you for being so kind."

 _Strike while the iron's hot …_

Lillian sat down beside the younger woman, deciding, as always, that directness was the best way.

"Sarah, it's plain to see that you've been burning the candle at both ends, and it's doing you no good," she began. "Do you have anything critical that you absolutely _must_ do this weekend, or can you take it a little easier for a while?"

Sarah smiled. "I've actually just finished a big project," she said, "so I've got nothing urgent to do, although there's a few small commissions I need to finish in the next couple of weeks, and them I'm done until after the baby arrives," she paused, frowning a little. "Why do you ask?"

Deciding that nothing ventured, nothing gained, Lillian reached over to take Sarah's hands in hers. "Then please agree to stay here with Bill and I for a few days, just until we can see that you've caught up on your rest. You're so brave, doing all of this by yourself and working too, but there's only so far you can push things before they start to push back."

 _Stay? Stay with the Holmes parents?_

"That's ... very thoughtful of you, but I'm not sure that's such a good idea …" Sarah felt a strange sense of foreboding, but Lillian squeezed her fingers again. "I know you want to do the best for the baby, my dear, but unless you take better care of yourself, then you're really not doing all that you can," she said, pulling no punches. "The crying and the irritability are all signs you're driving yourself too hard," she added. "I was exactly the same when I was carrying Mycroft, so I know what I'm saying."

"You cried when you were pregnant with him?" Sarah found the idea oddly comforting, as though it wasn't her own weakness that was entirely at fault here.

"Oh _god_ ," Lillian smiled widely at the memory. "I was proofreading my first and last useful contribution to mathematics and I was so tired, I cried buckets at the drop of a hat," she laughed. "It was mostly music that set me off, but come the end, the slightest thing and I'd turn into Niagara Falls. Poor Bill," she smiled again, shaking her head. "To this day I'm convinced it was Mycroft practicing his methods of persuasion in the womb; I never had the slightest problem with his brother in that respect."

"I'd like to hear about Mycroft's childhood," Sarah realised if she wanted any idea about peculiarities her own child might develop, it would be a sensible thing to get the information direct from the source.

"Then stay here with us for a few days. Relax and do nothing for a while; we can have all the chats you want, and Bill can show you some of the places the boys used to play in," Lillian paused, hopeful. "Do please say you'll stay."

As the idea washed over her, Sarah knew this was another of those situations where whatever choice she made, there would be repercussions. If she stayed, her plan to keep her pregnancy business-like and without external emotional entanglements would take another dent. If she _didn't_ stay, she'd miss possibly the only opportunity she might have to find out what to expect from this child; if anyone knew what was likely to happen, it would be Lillian Holmes.

… it would make it a lot harder to keep the Holmes family at a distance in the future …

… it would allow her to rest without feeling guilty about it for once …

… yes, but it was _his_ parents …

… his parents seemed like lovely people; she wished her own parents had been so …

… by staying, was she making a promise she couldn't keep?

… she was so weary … so very very _tired_ …

"Then I'll stay." As the words left her mouth, Sarah knew she was somehow probably committing to a longer and more complicated arrangement, but right now, she just couldn't bear to think about anything that far ahead. "Though I'll have to get some clothes and my laptop and things," she fretted at the thought. "Perhaps it's not such a good idea after all …"

"Nonsense!" Lillian squeezed her hands. "When Mycroft has us driven down in his car at this time of day, it takes less than an hour, unless you were planning on going to bed in the next hour or so?"

"Not at all," Sarah smiled at the clear concern on Lillian Holmes' face. "I dislike imposing and I'm not used to other people doing this kind of thing for me," she added. "It feels a little uncomfortable, to be truthful."

"Oh my dear," Lillian squeezed her hand again. "This is exactly the time you need family to do these sort of things; it's your right to have people around you who care, my dear child, never worry about imposing, never _ever_ think that."

And it was so warm and comfortable in here, and the lighting was so soft and lovely and Lillian was suddenly the mother she'd never had that, quite naturally, Sarah burst into tears again.

"That's a girl," Lillian rubbed the younger woman's arm as the tears fell. "You're nice and safe and cared for here, so cry all you need," she said, recognising one of Mycroft's handkerchiefs in Sarah's hand. She smiled. Her son could be infuriating at times, but he really was a good man at heart. "I expect you're starving," she said. "I've got a pot of home-made soup on the stove and we eat early out here in the country, so let's get you freshened up and go and have some dinner and plan how to organise this camping trip of yours, shall we?"

"Hello, again," Bill Holmes was stirring a large copper pot on the top of the Aga and the kitchen was filled with a glorious fragrance of home-made vegetable soup and fresh bread. As she made her way into the typically untidy country kitchen, Sarah's stomach reminded her she'd not really eaten a proper meal for some time. She found herself being fussed over and seated in the captain's chair at the head of the table with a thick cushion to sit on. In seconds, the large dinner plate at her place was covered with a filled soup bowl and a basket of hot bread rolls pushed to within easy reach.

"All done," Mycroft strolled back into the kitchen, the corners of his mouth curving a little at Sarah's presence. "Feeling better?" he asked. "Or would you like another clean handkerchief?"

"Don't tease the girl, Mykie ..."

 _Mykie?_

"... Sarah's having a difficult enough time as it stands with you being smart about it all," Lillian busied herself around the table until everything was as she desired.

"My abject apologies," Mycroft slid his jacket off and hung it around the back of a chair, rolling up both his cuffs before sitting down directly opposite her. "I'm rather more used to dealing with _La Lawrence_ , _Virago_ , than her more temperate alter ego," he smiled, his eyes flickering to her spoon which she had not yet touched. "I promise you," his voice was immediately mild. "While my mother is an exceptional cook, she won't be remotely offended if you're not hungry, will you, Mummy?"

"If you're not hungry, then of course you don't have to eat it all," Lillian frowned, "but if you've had nothing all day but breakfast and a scone, then you need to try," she said, meeting her husband's gaze over the top of her soup spoon. "For the baby, if nothing else."

 _Yes, she needed to eat._

Lifting the spoon, Sarah took the smallest sample, savouring it until her tastebuds got used to the idea of real food. They seemed to catch on fairly quickly and before she realised, her bowl was empty. Lifting her eyes in surprise, she caught both Holmes parents looking at her with knowing smiles.

"Plenty in the pot, my dear," Bill reached over for another bread roll. "And there's apple pie and cream for pudding if you can fit any in."

 _Apple pudding to make the baby grow up strong and tall._

"And if not, then that's not a problem either," Lillian looked across the dinner table at her eldest son. "Now how are we going to get Sarah's things down here without having her drag all the way up to town and back down again?"

"Of course I have to go," Sarah put her spoon down. "I have the only key to the front door and nobody else knows what I will need. I don't think there's any other way, is there?"

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft remained silent and continued eating.

"When you look that artless Mykie, I know you have something up your sleeve," his mother observed tartly. "What is it?"

"My assistant in London would, I'm sure, be delighted to pack a bag for Sarah this evening and have it driven down to a mutually convenient spot" he paused, frowning a little he reviewed a mental map of the roads between Farningham and London. "I could have Jack meet her halfway, collect the bag and be back here within an hour," he murmured, finishing his soup and dabbing his mouth with a soft linen napkin.

"I'd really prefer not to have a stranger going through my things," Sarah smiled politely. "And besides, your assistant wouldn't have a clue what I wanted or what I like to wear," she shook her head. "And again, I have the only key. So thank you, but no. It might be easier for me to go home tonight and arrange to come down another time ..."

Lillian stared at her son and raised her eyebrows, the unspoken warning perfectly clear between them.

"Naturally I wouldn't expect you to trust a complete stranger," Mycroft's smile was on the edge of smug as he pulled out his phone. Pressing a couple of buttons, he held it to his ear. "Ah, _Anthea_. I have a small favour to ask of you involving Sarah Lawrence. I wonder if you'd mind having a little word with her first ... That would be most helpful, my thanks ..."

Taking the slim black phone still warm from his hand, Sarah held it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Stepan send his compliments," there was the merest hint of a Slavic growl beneath the woman's voice. "What favour does Himself want us to discuss?" As her voice changed instantly to a soft British inflection, Andrea sounded immoderately cheerfully and totally unbothered by any concerns over her recent Moscovian thespianism.

 _Andrea wasn't an Intourist photographer? Andrea was Mycroft Holmes' assistant? Her name wasn't even Andrea?_

"You work for Mycroft Holmes?" Sarah was almost too shocked to feel shocked. "All that time in Moscow, you were working for ... _he_ was the one you were on the phone with all the time?"

"Not all the time, but quite a lot, yes." Andrea agreed. "But since Vadim was spying on you for the other side, it kind of evened things up a little. Between you and me, Mycroft was frantic when he heard you had a gig in Russia," she laughed. "If I hadn't agreed to go and watch over you, I expect he'd have gone himself and arranged all sorts of accidental 'meetings'," she laughed again. "Will you ever forgive me? I fully accept it being a disgraceful imposition on your privacy and I felt really awkward about it at the start, but it was hilarious listening to him panic when you talked about having the baby on a round-the-world cruise ... I almost lost the plot and would probably have lost my job too. It was all with your very best interests at heart, you do know that, don't you? And you and I had such fun, didn't we? I've already asked if I can be your bodyguard next time you go anywhere."

 _Andrea worked for Mycroft and Vadim had been a Russian spy? Mycroft had been frantic? Bodyguard?_

"Mycroft is the manager you told me about that first night? The one who kept sending you all those text messages? Sarah felt hopelessly swamped with information; her brain stuttering as it tried to absorb the new reality. She should be furious. She probably should be bursting into tears any second, but all she felt was ... exasperation? Apathy? Acknowledgment? It was either all too much for her to get angry about right now, or she was so tired, she'd probably work up to being furious in a day or so. Either way, she simply couldn't manage any more commotions today.

"You're utterly shameless," Sarah squeezed her eyes momentarily closed in disbelief. It was all too much. "I think you're both as bad as each other," she said, lifting her eyes to look across the kitchen table only to find dark blue eyes staring right back. There was nothing remotely contrite in Mycroft's expression.

"So what does the Boss want this time?" Anthea was entirely unrepentant too; she didn't even have the grace to sound marginally guilty.

"I've been invited to stay for a while at the Holmes house in Kent," Sarah looked around the table to see three people deliberately _not_ watching her. So intent was Lillian on this task that she was hardly breathing. "But it's been something of an _ad hoc_ invitation and I've brought nothing with me ... hang on a second," Sarah stood. "Excuse me," she smiled at the Holmes parents before walking down the passage towards the parlour. "Mycroft said you could pack me a bag and meet him somewhere between London and the Holmes place.

"Yep, not a problem," Andrea said. "Hang on, I'm going to start recording ...okay. Shoot."

"What do you mean, ' _not a problem'_?" Sarah was still unsure whether she should be working up the energy to feel cross at being taken so easily for a ride. "Firstly, there's no way you can get into my flat as I have the only key and there's an alarm, and second, you have no idea where I keep everything nor what I want, even if you were able to get in," she shook her head again. "Apart from being unspeakably interfering, you and Mycroft are both quite mad."

Andrea's laugh was reminiscent of the time on the Moscow trip where Vadim had fallen into a fast-running but shallow river when photographing a kayak race. He had managed to keep his camera dry, despite having to keep dodging nearly three-hundred irritated kayakers. Both women had laughed themselves breathless. "Trust me," she said. "If you'll give me permission and your alarm code, I can get into your flat and get your stuff and you'll never know I was there. Now, what is it you want me to pack, where is everything kept and do you have any special requests?"

It was nearly five minutes later when Sarah walked back into the kitchen, just as Lillian served up a steaming hot apple pie and Bill returned from the refrigerator with a large bowl of pale yellow cream for the table. Mycroft was still seated looking superior and somewhat above the mundanity of dinner at his parent's house. All eyes turned at Sarah's entrance; Lillian's was especially hopeful.

Retaking her seat and picking up her napkin, Sarah looked at Mycroft. "That was despicably low," she said. "Even for you."

His mouth quirked. "I take it an arrangement has been made?"

"Your driver is to meet her at the Esso petrol station at Horn Park; she'll give you a call after she's been to my place and has everything in a bag." Even though she knew she should probably feel angry at having been deceived like this, Sarah was suddenly in a strangely good mood, as if all the grey that had surrounded her earlier had just ... vanished. "Your behaviour is completely outrageous, you realise," she said, even though her sense of outrage seemed remarkably unworried about the whole thing. Perhaps she had nothing left to shock.

"Can I tempt you with a piece of my wife's apple pie, my dear?" William leaned across the table as he sliced into the crisp, sugar-caramelled crust. "It's scandalously good."

"And then a small cup of milky cinnamon coffee and the tiniest sip of port?" Lillian retook her seat. "You'll be amazed how much better you'll feel afterwards, I promise."

Looking around at the three of them, Sarah found herself staring into the gaze directly opposite. Dark blue eyes, smiling and oddly victorious.


	5. Five

It was barely seven o'clock when Jack returned with her bag in his hand. The time since dinner had been spent listening to Bill and Lillian talking about goings-in on the nearby village of Eynsford with the local church finally reopening after having a new floor put in.

"And the _bodies_ , my dear," Lillian sounded deliciously horrified. "Under the floor ... bones positively _everywhere!_ A proper mausoleum it was," she finished her glass of port, leaning forward, her voice low and macabre. "And nobody knew!"

Mycroft lifted a laconic eyebrow. "Slight exaggeration, Mummy," as he got up to answer the knock at the front door.

Feeling snug and relaxed and far too well-fed, Sarah felt her eyes gradually closing in the dimmed lamplight of the fire-warmed sitting room. Even though it was nowhere near her usual bedtime, she yawned, already half-asleep.

"An early night might be just the thing," Mycroft took her bag in one hand, holding the other out towards Sarah to help her up. Not even thinking, she rested her fingers in his and stood, said her goodnights and allowed herself to be drawn back through the kitchen towards a hidden flight of old stone stairs that curved up between painted stone walls. His hand was warm around hers and she had absolutely no idea why she was holding it. _Tomorrow_. She'd think about it tomorrow.

"The main stairs at the front of the house are longer and further away from your room," Mycroft advised her. "You're also nearer the main bathroom at this end of the house," he added. "There's an _ensuite_ in my parent's room, so you needn't worry about being in the way. All you have to do is relax and allow my parents to spoil you for a while," he said, helping her up the narrow stairway. "It's an inevitability and I suggest you don't fight my mother on this; she is something of a _tour de force_."

Sarah smiled a little at that; if nothing else, Mycroft was certainly a product of his upbringing. Looking down the long darkened passageway of the top floor, she realised she was at one end of the house and Lillian and Bill at the other. Mycroft was quite right; there would be no disturbance to anyone.

"Your mother is wonderful," she said. "I don't have much to compare her against, but she's a lovely lady and I don't want her to be hurt."

Pausing beside a door, Mycroft looked thoughtful. "This is not the time for such a conversation," he said quietly. "Get some sleep; rest and we can talk when you are feeling more yourself," he opened the door. "Your bedroom."

Flicking on the wall switch, the medium-sized room was clearly that once used by a child. The long single bed was covered in several brightly coloured blankets and a thick, old-fashioned eiderdown in a rich blue satin. The bed had been freshly made up with crisp white sheets and pillowcases and even turned down for her. An old copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ had been laid across the pillows. Sarah smiled again; Lillian was a superb hostess.

The room itself had clearly belonged to a boy ... a young man, Sarah corrected herself as she saw shelves laden with adventure books and complicated wooden models at one end and heavy tomes of economic and political treatises at the other that reminded her of university. The walls were covered with faded ancient wallpaper of old steamships on an endless ocean and the heavy, floor-length curtains were a deeper Atlantic blue. The big oval rug in the middle of the floor was handmade and fraying slightly around the edges. It was a room that was home to many stories and, just as she could walk into any hotel in the world and know if it was one people would like or not, she knew that this was a room people had liked, one person in particular.

"Is this yours or your brother's?" she asked, running a finger gently across a picture frame containing a black-and-white photo of a red setter.

"Sherlock's room is the far side of the bathroom," Mycroft placed her bag on top of a wide wooden desk at the other side of the room. "I thought it better for you to have this one," he said. "It felt more ... seemly."

Feeling her knees almost give way, Sarah sat heavily on the side of the bed, rubbing her forehead with the fingers of both hands. "I'm feeling so confused," she said softly. "None of this is working out the way I imagined it would. Things have gone way off-track."

There was a pause as if words wanted to be said but were held back.

"You strike me as the sort of person who makes their own track," his voice was low and sounded sincere. "Who's to say whether your plans have gone awry, of if you're simply adjusting them to meet new parameters?" he added, a faint smile on his mouth. "We are all ultimately responsible for our own lives."

 _Yes. I know this. I've always known this._

"I'm too tired to argue," Sarah looked around. "But this is a lovely room and you're very generous letting me use it at all," she paused. "Are you staying tonight?"

"Not tonight; I must get back to London," Mycroft shook his head. "I had no plans to come down to Kent at all until earlier today when I became an unexpected knight-errant."

"And I was certainly a damsel in distress," she smiled, "though I'm not sure if I legally qualify as a damsel anymore," she patted her bump and met his gaze expecting to see a mildly tweaked eyebrow. Instead, his expression burned strangely and with an unexpected intensity in the dimly-lit room.

"Goodnight Sarah," he nodded briefly. If you need anything else brought down from London, you'll find both my number and Anthea's are now listed on your phone; call either of us without hesitation. Get some rest." The door closed soundlessly behind him and she was alone. Sarah had to shake herself; the sudden sensation of finally being by herself was almost enough to make her feel _too_ lonely and a little panicky in this strange place. Taking several deep breaths, she felt her pulse slow as the sensation faded.

Unsure what to do next, Sarah opened the bag Mycroft had parked on the other side of the room. The holdall was large, new and not even one of hers, and there seemed to be a lot of stuff packed into it. It was probably one of Andrea's ... _Anthea's_. Unzipping the main central section, she saw her laptop was on the very top, together with the power cable, so that was one big concern out of the way; she could at least do some work while she was here. There were also a couple pairs of shoes, soft boots, slippers, a pair of her maternity jeans, a couple pairs of stretchy slacks and a pile of heavy cotton tops. Packed down into the side sections were a few knitted pieces, socks and underwear. In a big square zipped section at one end of the bag, were her toiletries and a large paper bag with a well-known Chemist's logo on the front, which rattled when she pulled it open. Tipping the contents out onto the bed, Sarah saw there were brand new unopened bottles and packets of pre-natal supplements: Folic acid, multivitamins, Omega 3, Vitamin D3, Magnesium and Coconut oil. Checking an identical pocket at the other end of the bag revealed a big bag of boiled raspberry sweets from her favourite organic shop and a thick bar of very expensive handmade dark chocolate. A note stuck to the wrapper said it had been recommended by a doctor and to enjoy it guilt free. She smiled; this was indeed pampering on an industrial scale.

Stuffed in right down the bottom of the bag was a rolled up pair of very old and extraordinarily baggy men's pyjamas which she most loved to wear. Her legs were too long for most women's PJs, and these were so soft and comfortable, regardless of what they looked like. The only thing Andrea ... _Anthea_ hadn't managed to stuff into the bag was her dressing gown which might have been handy should the house turned cold at night. Automatically lifting her head to check, Sarah was unsurprised to see a long dark-blue robe hanging behind the door. It was the effort of a moment to lift it down and try it on. Hanging down to below her knees though a bit tight across her expanding front, the old robe smelled vaguely of dust and ancient aftershave. If Mycroft Holmes had given her his old room to use, she doubted he'd mind her borrowing an old dressing gown. Deciding that she could deal with everything else in the morning, Sarah undressed and slipped into her PJs, wrapping the robe around her as she grabbed her toiletry bag and headed into the bathroom next door.

In the bright light of the warm room, she felt the old cotton rug soft under her toes. The large square mirror over the big sink showed a face that looked pinched with tiredness and pale with stress.

"Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into," she addressed her image with some severity as she cleaned her teeth, washed her face and combed out her hair. "Try behaving with a little more intelligence in future, if you don't mind," she added, waving the comb accusingly at her reflection. "You've given me more than enough problems to be going on with and I'd appreciate you at least trying to behave like a rational adult from now on, _if_ you don't mind." Sarah yawned so hard her eyes went blurry for a moment. An early night was probably the very best thing ... she put her toothbrush away. How dare he be right?

There was an antique radiator in the bedroom that was barely warm, but even though it must be really cold outside by this time of night, the room was not remotely chilly. Peering around the edge of the heavy curtain, Sarah saw that beneath the equally heavy wooden windowsill, the stone wall was over a foot thick. No wonder the room was so cosy; the whole house was so solidly built it would likely stay temperate even in the harshest of winters. This end of the house was also right above the old kitchen with its great big ancient Aga which would radiate heat day and night. Either way, she felt perfectly comfortable.

Pulling the bedding back enough for her to get into the narrow bed, Sarah realised there was a slight central dip in the mattress where it had conformed over the years to a single body. Impossible to sleep in the bed any other way, she stopped worrying about it and lay back against the cool cotton pillowcases. Normally, she read before she slept, and though she smiled at the thought of Lillian leaving her _Gulliver's Travels_ , she was far too sleepy now to think of anything but closing her eyes. Switching off the small bedside lamp, Sarah snuggled down on her side finding, to her great surprise, her increasingly heavy bump was perfectly supported on the slightly raised portion along the edge of the mattress. Smiling in the darkness, she doubted the previous occupant would have been aware of this particular and very specific level of hospitality. Yawning again, she rested her face against the cool of the pillow and thought about ...

It was still dark in the room when she awoke, her bladder telling her she'd better move _right now_ unless she was prepared for embarrassing consequences. Throwing off the blankets and eiderdown, Sarah sat on the side of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Judging from the state of the bedclothes, she'd hardly moved at all, too tired or too comfortable to budge. Wrapping the old robe around her, she opened the bedroom door expecting to see the darkness of night, only to be shocked at the level of bright light shining in through the bathroom window. This wasn't even early morning light. _God ... how long had she slept?_

Splashing her face with water, Sarah made her way slowly down the narrow stone staircase into the kitchen, the quiet sound of voices making her late rising impossible to hide.

"And there you are," Lillian looked up from her cup of tea, a smile curving her mouth. "I looked in earlier to see if everything was alright, but you were so soundly asleep that I felt it best to let you go for as long as you needed," she added. "Feeling better?"

"Country air will do that to you, you know," Bill stood to get another cup and saucer for their guest. "Sit down and have some tea and then you can tell us what you'd like for breakfast," he paused. "Or lunch, as the case may be."

"What time is it?" Sarah asked at the same moment she glanced up at the wall between two windows where an old wooden clock held place of honour. _Quarter past one. Good grief._ Mortified, Sarah wasn't sure whether to apologise or try and make a joke of it, when Lillian leaned over and patted her hand. "You needed the sleep, my dear," she said. "And I'm sure it won't be the last time; it's good for you and if that's what your body wants, you'd be silly not to let nature take its course. Hungry?"

Hungry ... normally a piece of toast and some fruit and yoghurt was all she could manage, but right now, her stomach appeared to be keenly interested in the possibility of a multiple-course banquet. She laughed, surprised. "I'm famished," she grinned and sampled the tea; hot and delicate on her palate. It was perfect. "I can't remember the last time I was this hungry."

"Wonderful," Lillian nodded at her husband. "Since Mycroft told us that you'd not been feeling like eating recently, Bill's been working out all sorts of things he could cook to tempt a jaded appetite, haven't you darling?"

"Indeed I have," Holmes senior leaned his arms forward on the table. "How does a banana and maple syrup crêpe with crispy bacon sound? Or a big bowl of muesli with fresh-toasted hazelnuts and yoghurt followed by a small cheese omelette? Or then there's good old-fashioned ham and eggs with some of Mummy's left over apple pie?"

On the verge of drooling, Sarah managed to smile politely instead. "It all sounds lovely," she said, hoping her stomach wasn't going to start making really shameful noises. "Though I don't want you to go to any trouble; putting up with an unexpected guest is a lot to ask, I appreciate."

"Now remember what I said yesterday," Lillian got up to make some fresh tea. "You're not to even think of this as imposing; we asked you to stay for the very reason that we relished the opportunity to help out. Why don't you go up and have a shower or a quick bath and then come back down. That'll give Bill a chance to do his impression of Nigella; he does so love to cook."

"All true," the elder Holmes got up to wrap himself in a long white chef's apron before going to the sink to wash his hands. "And since I rarely have anyone else to cook for, then I'm afraid you'll just have to grin and bear it," he smiled cheerfully. "How does twenty minutes sound?"

"It sounds brilliant," finishing the last of her tea, Sarah stood, adjusting the borrowed dressing gown around her.

"Oh my dear," Lillian stroked the sleeve of the robe. "That old thing has to be full of dust and probably moths. If you want to wear it, bring it down with you and I'll give it a wash."

"Anthea didn't pack me a dressing gown ... I hope you don't mind me borrowing this ..?" Sarah stood, suddenly awkward.

"Not in the least," there was the ghost of tears in Lillian's eyes. "It's been so long since either of the boys lived here, and we were never lucky enough to have a daughter," she added softly. "Having you here, if only for a little while, is such a lovely thing."

"Now then Mother," Bill stood by the open refrigerator. "Best let Sarah go off and get dressed if she's to properly enjoy the full majesty of her breakfast."

Blinking as the moment faded, Lillian inhaled sharply and nodded. "Of course. Off you go then," she smiled, rolling her eyes in her husband's direction as she began to clear the table. "Chef has spoken."

Making her way slowly back upstairs, Sarah pondered on how such two ordinary and perfectly sweet people could possibly be the parents of something as arrogant and pompous as Mycroft Holmes. _Wait_ ... Didn't Mycroft say his brother's name was _Sherlock?_ Sherlock Holmes ... the name seemed to ring a bell somewhere, as if she'd heard it quite a lot, but not necessarily recently. It wasn't exactly the sort of name you forgot. She'd have to remember to ask the Holmes parents.

Navigating her way into the bathtub, she pulled the old plastic curtain around her and turned on the shower taps, only then realising she hadn't thought to look for a shower cap. By the time the water was at the right temperature, her hair was soaked anyway. Finding half a bottle of herbal shampoo, Sarah thought she might as well wash everything and be done with it; it wasn't as if she was going anywhere she needed to be presentable and smart. Since her pregnancy, her hair had certainly improved, especially after years of mistreating it beneath hot, sun-filled skies and in the salt water of uncounted beaches around the world. Right now it was thick and shining, its weight a solid thing in her hands. She'd actually contemplated having it cut short but changed her mind. It would be a shame to hack it all of just when it was clearly enjoying itself.

Dressing in comfortable jeans, a thick cotton shirt and a voluminous cardigan, she towel-dried her hair as best she could, deciding to see what she could do with it later, after eating. Her stomach was sending out a determined S.O.S and she was beginning to feel a little fuzzy with the apparent lack of food. Making it back down into the kitchen, she was treated to a huge grin on Bill Holme's face as he presented her with a beautifully rolled, wafer thin crêpe stuffed with sliced bananas and the luscious aroma of maple syrup.

" _Bon appetit!_ " handing her a fork, he stepped back to admire the view.

"Do you want to photograph it for posterity?" Sarah wasn't sure whether to compliment it or eat it, but the smell was maddening and impossible to resist, her low groan of pleasure greeting the first mouthful. "Sublime," she said, closing her eyes and chewing. In much too brief a time, the plate was empty, the food far too delicious.

"And if madam would care for 'er second course?" Bill stood at her side. A small white tea towel hanging over his wrist as he twirled an imaginary moustache. A sparkling white plate holding the most _petite bouch_ _é_ _e_ of an omelette. "And to accompany, may I recommend the _'75 Pouilly-Fumé_ ," his French accent was truly appalling as he magically produced a champagne flute, filling it from a jug of chilled milk. "Ah sink madam will find ziss to be a _vin amusant_."

Meeting Lillian's eyes at the other side of the kitchen, Sarah wasn't sure what to do.

"Yes, he's quite mad," the older woman nodded as she walked to the sink to rinse out the dishes. "But it's part of his charm," she turned and gazed fondly at her husband. "Isn't it darling?"

"One needs to embrace a little foolishness in one's life," Bill smiled happily as he walked over to the coffee machine. "Too much seriousness can prove extremely deleterious to one's _joie de vivre_. Coffee, everyone?"

With a father such as Bill, how on _earth_ did Mycroft turn out to be such an autocrat? What could have possibly happened to the boy, to the younger self, that would make the adult so coldly controlled and controlling? As she sat at the kitchen table eating the most perfect of omelettes and thinking about Mycroft's adolescence, Sarah's passenger decided that now was as good a time as any to interrupt such philosophical considerations.

"Bloody _hell_ ," she dropped her fork and clasped the right side of her abdomen, a hissed breath marking the enthusiasm of the incipient icy-hockey player inside. Or possibly it was a giraffe; hard to say, really.

"Are you all right?" Lillian had turned at Sarah's exclamation, only to see her guest leaning forward on the kitchen table with a look of distinct discomfort on her face. "Oh my dear, what is it?"

Saying nothing, Sarah beckoned the older woman over, grasping Lillian's hand and pressing the palm flat against the side of her stomach. There were several swift kicks in a row and Sarah's eyes nearly crossed with the effort not to swear loudly and with some extravagance.

Feeling the uninhibited activity of the next generation of Holmes, Lillian grasped Sarah's hand and squeezed. "It's a boy," she said confidently. "Both Sherlock and Mycroft kicked on that side too," she smiled hugely, quietly thrilled. "How wonderful," she patted Sarah's shoulder. "Such a clever girl."

As soon as she could catch her breath, Sarah swept her hair away from her face. At moments like this, it was a nuisance. Standing so close, Lillian couldn't help but examine the semi-damp mass.

"You have beautiful hair, you know," she said. "It's really quite stunning."

As the aromatic fragrance of fresh-ground coffee pervaded the kitchen, Sarah pulled her fingers through the dark weight. "I was seriously considering lopping the lot off," she said. "It's a hassle for much of the time."

"Oh, no," Lillian was horrified. "Never do that; it's far too lovely to lose on just a whim. Why not braid it all up out of the way?"

"I don't think I have the energy to do it anymore," Sarah shrugged as she finished the last of her breakfast. "Everything seems to be just a bit too much effort at the moment, though I realise that sounds horribly slovenly."

"Then once you've finished with breakfast, let me braid it for you and we can talk about your plans for the baby at the same time, how does that sound?"

Actually, it sounded wonderful.

###

After sitting quietly for half-an-hour while Lillian plaited her glossy brown hair up into the most complex and intricate French braid she'd ever seen ... _it's all mathematics, my dear_ ... and then letting Bill show her the contents of his beloved shed, in reality, an old stable block converted into part workroom, part artist studio and part den, Sarah felt exhausted all over again, even though she'd slept so deeply the previous night.

"Time for a nap, then," Lillian shooed her off upstairs. "Come down for dinner, or when you feel like eating again," she said. "There's absolutely no need for you to do anything you don't want to do." Unable to remember the last time she'd taken a nap in the middle of the afternoon, Sarah smiled a little self-consciously as she headed for the stone stairway.

Back in Mycroft's old room, daylight gave her a chance to look around in a little more detail than she'd done the evening before; she was fairly sure Mycroft wouldn't mind her being curious ... he probably expected it. The afternoon sun though low, was still enough to slant through the small window, highlighting a variety of books and collectables one might expect to find in any boy's bedroom. If she had judged correctly and Mycroft was roughly in his mid-forties, then he would have been at university, at the very latest, about twenty years previously. Which meant this room had remained caught in time since then, with no new inhabitant to change it.

While weaving her hair up into the neatest of braids, Lillian had spoken of her two sons, how they were so very similar and yet so incredibly different. It sounded as if she had a special soft spot for the youngest Holmes, Sherlock, but at the same time, seemed immensely proud of the achievements of her eldest.

"I'm sure I've heard about Sherlock somewhere," Sarah remembered to ask. "Though I'm not certain where."

"He's a detective," Lillian drew a few stray hairs into the next braid. "He works a lot with the Metropolitan Police, but he's been all over the country ... all over the world, really," she added. "He was involved in a big scandal a couple of years ago where the foolish boy faked his own death in order to get to the bottom of some international gang of criminals," she said. "Perhaps you read about his name in the papers then?"

 _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective ... Doctor John Watson ..._

"Yes," Sarah nodded, remembering. "Is he all right now? I recall there was some trouble with the police?"

"Oh, you have no idea," Lillian rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Such a fuss, but it all worked out in the end, as these things tend to do," she smiled, happy at the memory. "Though sometimes I wish he had taken up a nice safe government job like his brother."

 _Like his brother_. Sarah sat on Mycroft's bed and looked around his room. There were a few framed photographs; the dog, long-dead now most probably. There was one of a group of young men sitting and standing on some broad stone steps, the piles of books at their feet and on the steps beside them suggesting this was a university photo. Squinting, Sarah could just make out a much younger Mycroft with hair that curled down over his forehead, though even then he preferred more formal attire than his classmates. He stood, slightly aside from the main group, as if he felt such closeness was for the others. Still, by the half-grin on his face, he appeared perfectly happy and normal, conventional even.

Moving on to the several long shelves of books, she saw a number of well-worn adventure and spy novels, Alistair Maclean, Robert Ludlum, all stories with decent adventures and plots. Next to them stood heavy books of philosophical discourse; the teachings of Socrates and Plato, and newer thinkers, Sartre, Mill and ... she smiled. _Machiavelli_ , naturally. There were also a number of very creased paperbacks of biographies of the great Statesmen: Churchill, Jefferson, Ataturk.

Running her fingertips over these clearly well-used volumes, Sarah came to several solid hardbacks which looked more like bound theses than commercial texts. Turning her head sideways to read the embossed gold words on the spine ... _Treaty of Brussels_ ... _Treaties of Rome_ ... _The Maastricht Treaty_. These were all the contracts that had bound the European Union closer and closer together. Carefully levering out one of the big books, Sarah cradled it in one arm, opening it randomly and flicking through a few of the closely-printed pages. An object flattened between two pages caught her eye and she flicked back, opening the book wider to see ...

Of all things. _A dried rose_. Pressed and desiccated, bleached almost colourless by age, she was just able to make out the faded red of the petals, though when she sniffed, there was no perfume left. _A dried red rose kept forever in the pages of politics_. Sarah found she was smiling. That someone like Mycroft Holmes might have, at any point in his life, felt a desire to preserve a rose, and a red one at that. Such a romantic gesture made him almost ... human.

Replacing the heavy book back into its place, Sarah continued exploring the bookshelves, noticing a tiny fragment of dark material sticking out at the far end of one shelf from behind the last book. Reaching up, she pulled it gently free realising it was connected to a child's toy. It wasn't until the toy was fully in her hand that she saw she was holding a small figurine; masked, dressed in grey and wrapped up in a black cape. _Batman_. The unknown caped crusader. Was that how Mycroft thought of himself as a child? As some kind of unknown champion? Did he still? Really, the things she was finding out about the father of her child were quite startling ... and then she paused.

Mycroft had wanted her to have this room, hadn't he? He'd said it was more 'seemly' whatever that was supposed to mean, but he'd had to have known she'd be curious and take a look around a room that hadn't been touched or changed in decades. Brushing dust off the figurine's tiny cape, she stood it on the bedside table beside the lamp.

Blinking with sudden tiredness, Sarah sat back on the bed, pulling the eiderdown off the top and sliding beneath it, her bump once again perfectly cradled by the raised contours of the old mattress. Yawning, she lay back and closed her eyes. It felt slightly odd to feel her hair braided the way it was and not loose and over her face, but there was no discomfort and she yawned again, feeling the cool of the pillow wonderfully soft against her cheek.

###

Once again, it was her bladder making itself known that roused her from a wonderful dream, though the fantasy was gone instantly from her thoughts as soon as she sat up. Freshening up in the bathroom, she checked her phone to see if there were any urgent messages. A text from Milt saying the final payment for the Intourist commission had been made and that she was significantly wealthier now than she had been the previous day. He also asked about the last couple of pieces she was due to complete by the end of the month. Did she need anything? Was she all right? Had she started thinking about baby names? Sarah smiled. Good old Milt. She flicked him a rapid text to say she was fine and staying with friends in Kent for a few days. There were a couple of other messages from various publishers asking her if she'd like to contribute to a collected works and questions about reviews, but nothing urgent.

A wonderful aroma wafted in through the half-opened bedroom door and she smiled again for a different reason. Realising she was taking shameful advantage of two perfectly decent people, Sarah nevertheless was so pleased Lillian had got her to stay. The idea of having a lovely meal with such pleasant, parent-like company was something she had never really had before. As if wanting to get in on the action, her passenger decided to add a few gentle nudges.

"Come on then," Sarah patted her tummy. "Let's go and stuff ourselves, shall we?"

Heading downstairs, the aroma of the food became so attractive that she could actually feel her mouth starting to water at the prospect of eating. "I have no idea what that is," she said, stepping off the last step and into the kitchen, "but it smells absolutely _fantastic_."

" _Ah_ , perfect timing!" Lillian lit several chunky candles on a setting in the centre of the table. "I was just about to pop up and see if you were stirring. Are you feeling hungry?"

"Apparently I can't stop feeling hungry, which is really weird since I hardly wanted to eat anything at all up in London."

"Then enjoy whatever you want while you're here," Bill placed a small drinks tray beside her holding three tumblers, each containing drinks of a very different colour.

"Fresh squeezed lemon juice and mineral water," he pointed to the first one where a slice of lemon floated in cloudy fizzing water along with a sprig of fresh mint. "Contains various healthy nutrients such as protein, carbohydrate, fibre, vitamins and more. It also contains minerals, folate, zinc and calcium," he rattled the details off, obviously reciting from memory before moving on to the second glass. "Apple juice; helps in the growth and development of the baby's brain. It is also a great source of iron and will help avoid conditions like anaemia," he nodded sagely before pointing at the third glass. "Carrot juice, a rich source of vitamins A and E," he finished. "I wasn't sure which one you'd prefer, so I thought you might like to try them all," he smiled. "It's finally given me a chance to experiment with the outrageously expensive juicer mummy bought in a mad moment last time she was up in town," he added, grinning.

"How many baby books have you downloaded since I arrived yesterday?" Sarah smiled as she tried the lemon juice; it was tart without being overly sharp. A perfect _aperitif_.

Over at the range, Lillian laughed as she dished up a thick soup into three bowls. "You've been found out, Bill," she grinned as she placed a bowl in front of their guest. "Sweet potato and butternut pumpkin soup with lemon and garlic toast," she said. "I hope you like garlic."

"Oh god, this all smells so good," Sarah groaned, almost inhaling the food from the plate.

"Just plain country cooking with home-grown ingredients," Bill was positively glowing at the praise. "Mycroft had a decent-sized greenhouse brought down and installed for my birthday last year and ever since, I've been experimenting to see what exotic things I could manage to grow," he pointed to the lemon juice. "There's a small lemon tree in there in a pot which hasn't stopped fruiting since I put it in," he grinned even more. "The sweet potatoes and pumpkin come from a bit of a polytunnel I usually have going out the front of the house, and you should see my kumquats!"

Holmes Senior was so absurdly delighted with his horticultural adventures that it was impossible not to share some of it and Sarah found herself smiling right back.

"And you have such a lovely smile, it's so nice to see you feeling better," Lillian sat down to her own dinner. "It's so very easy to become gloomy before you realise it's happened," she added. "Which is why it's generally a good idea to have people around to help, even if you don't think you need it," she added, none too subtly.

Catching herself before the _yes mum_ left her lips, Sarah smiled again but said nothing.

The soup was glorious but what made the whole thing so much nicer was the environment and the company. In truth, she had never known this, had never experienced this kind of family life. Both her parents had gone just when she was stepping into early adulthood, and she'd made very sure since then not to get herself personally entangled at any point. But now, with the baby and all the ups and downs that seemed to accompany babies, she realised that having someone to talk to and perhaps make her soup on occasion, or braid her hair with a precision that would dumbfound a regimental sergeant major might not be an entirely bad thing to have. Blinking her eyes, Sarah felt them begin to burn.


	6. Six

"You're so kind," she murmured quietly, unable to look up from her plate for fear she'd burst into tears and embarrass herself again.

"Not in the least, my dear," Lillian patted the back of her hand, being very careful not to notice the sudden huskiness in their guest's voice. "Ready for the main course?" she asked brightly, heading over to the Aga. "I had a nice piece of beef lined up for the weekend, but thought tonight was a much better time for it," she said, bringing over a great oval willow-pattern charger, piled high with thick slices of meat and roasted vegetables. A second trip produced a dish of steamed greens and another of crispy Yorkshire puddings. Bill carried the gravy and Sarah felt like applauding them both; she couldn't remember the last time she'd taken the time for herself to have a proper roast dinner. Why hadn't she taken better care of herself? Why had she permitted life to get in the way of actual living? Why had she allowed things to get so on top of her? What was her problem?

"Mycroft has an interesting bedroom," she said, by way of redirecting her thoughts. "What was he like as a child?"

Pausing in arranging plates on the table, Bill Holmes exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. "Studious," he said. "He never had any problems at school and always seemed to apply himself harder than most," he said, passing the serving spoons across to Sarah. "He was quite a serious little boy, even more so after Sherlock arrived."

"Sometime a bit too serious," Lillian plonked a luscious Yorkshire pudding on Sarah's plate. "I remember the time he was given a part in his prep school's Nativity play; one of the three wise men, and he turned the house upside down looking for something that would properly do for Frankincense," she shook her head, remembering.

"Oh that's right," Bill stopped moving dishes as the years slipped away and memory took their place. "That was the thing with the soap; I remember now."

"Soap?" Sarah couldn't help but be mildly intrigued.

"Mykie decided that in lieu of _real_ biblical Frankincense which, for some unknown reason the local shops seemed not to be stocking at the time, he'd have to organise a suitably alternative offering," Lillian smiled. "This entailed chopping up four whole bars of Pears soap and melting the pieces down into one of my terrine dishes in the Aga until it set. Took me _ages_ to get the stink of hot soap out of the kitchen."

"And the boys had chunks of reconstituted soap in their bathroom for weeks," Bill laughed. "To this day I don't think Sherlock can stand the smell of the stuff."

"Which university did Mycroft attend?"

"Merton at Oxford," Lillian pushed the dish of greens towards Sarah's plate. "We were quite prepared to send him to whatever university he wanted but he was offered a full scholarship because he did so well in his A-levels," she paused. "Actually, he was offered several scholarships, but it was Merton he wanted and so that's where he went," pursing her lips, Lillian looked momentarily serious. "I think that's where he started to grow apart from people actually," she said. "He was so clever and he did so well that he was always too busy to simply enjoy himself like the others," she shrugged, raising her eyebrows and meeting Sarah's gaze. "But how does one tell one's son not to work so hard and to allow a little more frivol into his life?"

"How long was he at Oxford?" Sarah couldn't help but ask. In some ways, Mycroft's life eerily mirrored her own.

"He graduated with a double First in PPE and Modern Languages," Bill sliced into the beef with every evidence of enjoyment. "Then he landed himself a Merton Scholarship to do his Masters in Modern History," he paused looking uncertainly at his wife. "What was it he did then, Mother?"

"I thought he'd probably want to go on and read a doctorate in politics or history," Lillian poured gravy onto Sarah's plate. "But just when I thought he'd spend the rest of his life as an Oxford Don, off he trots and starts working for the Home Office without so much as a phone call," she sounded mildly peeved. "University life would have suited him so well," she added wistfully, staring down at the table. "The gowns, the pomp and circumstance, all those little rituals," Lillian sighed. "But one can never tell with these things, can one?"

"Mycroft said that you had done well at university too," William poured a glass of dark red wine for Lillian and another for himself. "Cardiff, wasn't it?"

 _Mycroft had told his parents a little more than she'd realised_.

"Yes, I did quite well and landed a scholarship too, but I found that writing was the thing I wanted to do most of all and when I combined that with my love of travelling ..." Sarah smiled. "My career took off without me even realising it ... one minute I was a student writing assignments and the next I was writing commissioned assignments for travel mags."

"And your parents, my dear," Lillian leaned forward looking serious. "Do you mind if I ask about them?"

Taking a long sip of Bill's carrot juice spectacular, Sarah shook her head as she sliced into a perfectly roasted potato. "My father was a lieutenant commander on HMS _Lancaster_ and spent most of his active service in the Caribbean and around the Horn of Africa," she said. "I barely saw him when I was growing up, and my mother, probably to compensate for being left alone all the time, became something of a socialite, so I only really saw her during the day in the school holidays."

"But who looked after you when you were growing up?" Lillian sounded confused. "Did anyone else live with you, your grandmother, perhaps? A nanny?"

"Nope," Sarah shook her head more slowly. "I always had my head either in a book or else I was off out, tramping around the woods or the cliffs not far from the Navy house we lived in," she sat back. "I sort of brought myself up, really. Both my parents died just before I was eighteen, and by that time, I'd already decided I wanted to go to university and what I was going to do when I got there."

"Then it's no wonder you feel uncomfortable asking for help," Lillian was outraged. "You poor child, you've never had the chance to ask anybody for it before," the older woman sounded quite incensed.

"Now then, Mummy," Bill got up to refresh her wineglass. "No need to lose your temper; it was all years ago."

"So how long did Mycroft work for the Home Office?" Sarah wanted to change the subject but she was also curious; the man didn't strike her as a common-or-garden civil servant. He certainly didn't give the impression that he was used to following directions. Quite the opposite, if truth were told. It was probably one of the reasons she disliked him; he took far too much for granted.

"I think he's been there ever since he left Oxford," Bill returned to his dinner. "At least, he's never told us if he's moved elsewhere, has he?" he looked across the table at Lillian.

"No," she sniffed. "Although he's certainly doing very nicely for himself if those suits of his and that car and driver are anything to go by; and he's always been more than generous with Bill and I, as well as his brother."

"Sherlock?" Sarah paused. "The detective?"

"Well ... he wasn't always a detective," Lillian looked briefly down at her plate. "Sherlock went through some very troubled times not long after he left home," she said carefully.

"I hope you don't mind me asking questions about your family," Sarah looked apologetic. "But even though I really didn't want to have anything to do with the biological father of my child, now that I actually know who he is, I can't help but want to discover if there are any ... foibles in his family that might come out in the baby," she said. "If I'm being horribly insensitive, you must tell me."

"Not in the least, my dear girl," Bill smiled widely. "It's perfectly super having you here and I know my son well enough to realise that he wouldn't have brought you all the way down to Kent if he had intended to keep his family a secret, so ask away, please do."

"Then," Sarah paused. "Can you tell me what happened with Sherlock?" she said. "Just so that I know, so that I'm going to be ready if anything ... if anything was to ..."

"Drugs," Lillian picked up her wineglass, swirling the dark red liquid. "Nothing really unusual as a child except his extraordinary precociousness," she said, sipping the wine. "He was studying Chemistry at university and started experimenting with drugs to help him concentrate for longer or keep in with a certain crowd or to stop being so bored by everything, who knows," she said fatalistically. "He had it in his head that he needed to achieve at least the same level of results as his brother, but that he was never going to be good enough."

 _Was that it? Was that the reason a perfectly normal young man like Mycroft turned so cold? Guilt?_

"And _is_ Sherlock as clever as Mycroft?"

Her mouth forming a _moue_ , Lillian frowned. "Both our boys are far too smart for their own good," she said, a faint note of bitterness in the words. "But Mycroft has always been the smarter of the two, though not by much," she added. "He learned early on how to focus his intellectual ability in a very specific, single-minded way that Sherlock never did. Sherlock could easily have achieved the same results, but he got it into his head that he had to work exceptionally hard to beat his brother," Lillian sighed. " _Sibling rivalry_ , the experts call it."

"So he started using drugs?"

Lillian looked across the table towards her husband who wore a kindly expression on his face. "And Mycroft took it upon himself to try and help him stop," she sounded sad. "He saw his brother's failing as partially his own fault, you see."

 _Mycroft blamed himself for his brother's addiction? But yes, he might, if he felt responsible for its inception._

"But Sherlock's alright now?" Sarah realised she'd almost completely cleared her plate. Apparently, pregnancy was affecting her manners too. Forcing herself to slow her eating, she returned the conversation to Mycroft. "Do Mycroft and Sherlock have a lot to do with each other seeing that they both live in London?"

Making a rude noise, Mycroft's father paused in his eating. "I am occasionally informed of my sons' activities, but by all accounts, they have as little to do with each other as they possibly can," he said, sounding rueful. "Mycroft is entirely too critical of Sherlock's wildness and unpredictability, while Sherlock is deeply resentful of his brother's apparent overweening omniscience which he feels is aimed entirely too much in his direction."

"And yet I have no doubt that in the face of real adversity, either would support the other to their dying breath," Lillian shrugged, putting down her knife and fork, smiling as she saw Sarah's empty plate. "I am so pleased your appetite seems to be recovering," she said candidly. "You use up so much energy just to keep things going at this end of a pregnancy," she said. "It's too terribly easy to let things slide when you're exhausted," she smiled again. "How are you feeling now? A little better?"

And Sarah was. Though reluctant to admit that Mycroft's idea for her to stay in Kent for a few days had been a reasonable one, it would be both unfair and discourteous to his parents to pretend she was not already feeling very much more herself. Perhaps a few decent nights' sleep and finding a more sensible eating regimen was all that she needed.

 _But it had been more than that, hadn't it?_

Never one to pretend to herself, Sarah was also forced to acknowledge that it wasn't simply some extra rest and food that was making her feel less like a zombie and more like a human. It was being here with Bill and Lillian, both of whom had taken her, a complete and total stranger, into their lives. And they had done it warmly, happily and without a single sideways glance. Just as Mycroft had known they would. _Damn the man_.

"I am feeling much better already," she said honestly. "Even though all I seem to be able to think about right now is eating and sleeping which has me a little concerned," she looked philosophical. "But if that's what it takes ..."

"That's a very sensible way to look at it, and as long as you're starting to feel more yourself, then you carry right on the way you are," Lillian walked over to the Aga, opening the left-hand oven and bringing out a fragrant steamed chocolate pudding, the rich smoky aroma filling the kitchen and making Sarah long for a taste even though she'd already polished off a full plate of meat and vegetables. And soup. _And_ lemon and garlic toast. God, she was going to end up huge.

"Mycroft was quite right when he said you were an excellent cook," she said. "I'd better not get too used to all this wonderful food or I'll end up the size of a barn."

"Mycroft says a great many things," Lillian place the pudding in the centre of the table, "and not all of them are to be believed," she smiled, handing a large serving spoon to her husband. "Serve the pudding Bill please; I'll just put some coffee on."

"I'm going to need to go for a walk of something tomorrow," Sarah stared at the generous helping of pudding in front of her. "A very _long_ walk."

###

Following another solid night's sleep, Sarah awoke at a more reasonable time though still later than she usually did in her London flat. Perhaps it was the absolute absence of disturbing noise down here in the country; maybe it was the clean air, or perhaps she was simply sending her body into a food coma with all the stuffing she'd been doing for the last couple of days. Either way, and for the first time in ages, she actually felt her energy level zinging back to its normal state ... truth be told, she felt it tingling inside as she got up. It was a marvellous sensation and one she'd almost forgotten.

A brisk shower left her feeling polished and fresh, and she dressed a little more carefully in dark blue slacks and a richly burgundy boat-necked top, wrapping herself up in a long sleeveless Aran cardigan, she felt ready for anything. Her bump felt definitely rounder and more solid today, though it was hard to imagine the baby had grown that much in the last forty-eight hours, but then, she was no expert.

Arriving downstairs in the kitchen before either Lillian or Bill, Sarah filled the kettle for tea, before stepping out through the back door of the house down a couple of wide stone steps into a garden facing out across mist-laden fields. The early morning air smelled green and icy-crisp, with clouds of white mist drifting low over the pastures beyond the house. It was quite lovely, romantic almost, as the dark leafless tress in the distance mixed in with the rich evergreen of yews and conifers. Her gaze dropped down to the fields' surface, where the tracks of an animal wound around in the dew-soaked grass. There was something white and round peeking through the rough greenery. Her eyes narrowed as she focused … and smiled. She hadn't seen a sight like this for years and years. Heading back into the still-silent kitchen, she removed the near-boiling kettle from the stove and dug around in the cupboards until she found a large plastic colander. Turning, she headed back out through the door, only then realising she was wearing soft slippers. Two steps into that wet grass and she'd be soaked.

Looking around by the back door, she saw a long rack of upturned boots and shoes, including several pairs of Wellingtons. One pair was tiny and obviously belonged to Lillian. The other three pairs were all just as obviously men's boots and even though her own feet were long, these would be massive on her. Making an impatient face, Sarah looked around, noticing a battered old metal trunk against one wall; there might be other things she could borrow in there. There were several old pairs of boots that looked almost children's size, probably for visitors when they came. Digging deeper, she unearthed a pair of faded rubber half-boots which, though dusty and not worn for years, looked to be more or less the right size. Banging them together to dislodge any unwary Daddy-longlegs, she slipped her feet into them, tucking the bottom of her slacks inside to keep dry.

Thus adorned and equipped with the colander, she strode down to the end of the garden, through the black iron gate and across a small track into the unfenced field beyond, even at this time of year, its unmarred surface a sea of green. Checking that she wouldn't be walking into anyone's new grain crop, Sarah realised this field was lying fallow until Spring, which meant there was nothing for her to damage by walking across it. Stepping cautiously off the track and down into the edge of the grassy expanse, she felt the rough, early-winter ground hard beneath her feet. It was cold but not yet frozen. Walking slowly to the round white object she'd first seen several minutes before, Sarah bent carefully at the knees to reach down and pluck it from the ground.

A perfectly firm ripe field mushroom the size of her hand, exquisitely fragrant and begging to be eaten. Finding it hard to resist eating the thing raw, Sarah put it into the big bowl and hunted for more prey. Where there was one mushroom, there were almost always others. In less than five minutes, she'd found the motherlode and filled the colander, promising to return for more once these had been eaten. By the time she got back into the kitchen, both Bill and Lillian were moving around in the cosy warmth; Sarah waved to them as she walked up the back garden path.

"It's gorgeous out there this morning," she said, placing the bowl of mushrooms by the big old stone sink. "The air's so fresh and everything smells so invigorating," she smiled as her face warmed in the kitchen's heat. "You have a fabulous place here."

"You've got some lovely colour in your face," Lillian brushed Sarah's cheek with the side of a hand and smiled up at her before turning to her husband. "Sarah's been off gathering our breakfast by the looks of things, Daddy," she said. "Shall we have a mushroom omelette?"

"Just the ticket," Bill grinned, unhooking a large flat copper pan from a steel hook on the wall, spinning it like a tennis racquet. "I'll have these beauties done in two shakes of a lamb's tail …" his words trailed off as he saw his wife's face. "Whatever's the matter, darling?"

"Sarah's wearing Mycroft's old boots," the older woman pointed down at Sarah's feet. "I'd forgotten we even had the boys' old boots out in the scullery."

 _Of all the choices she could have made, trust her to pick Mycroft's old boots._

"None of the others would fit; I hope you don't mind ..?"

"No, of course not, my dear," Lillian looked at her fondly. "Those old things haven't fitted him since he was about thirteen. It was just seeing them again and you wearing them," she shook her head and raised an eyebrow archly. "Some would call this whole thing kismet."

Making no response, Sarah took time to divest herself of the now cleaned boots. "I was about to make some tea," she said, padding over to the kettle and replacing it on the boiling ring of the Aga.

"You're familiar with one of these, Sarah?" Lillian watched as her guest walked over to the cupboard with the cups and saucers.

"An Aga?" Sarah smiled. "In my travels I've used tagines in Morocco, cooked on a bed of hot coals in South Africa, steamed steel buckets of shrimp in Texas and barbecued goat over a fire in the Western Sahara," she said, placing three cups and saucers on the kitchen table. "I think an Aga is fairly safe ground after some of the things I've seen and used."

"You're so adventurous," Bill was already busy at the stove after peeling and de-stalking the wild mushrooms, he was already whizzing the roughly chopped sections around the big buttery pan before popping the whole thing into the simmering oven while he grated a very generous chunk of Gruyère, chopped up a handful of fresh parsley and masterfully frothed up a handful of eggs in a bowl. Retrieving the copper pan from the oven, he tipped the sizzling and divinely smelling mushrooms into the bowl with the cheese and parsley as he poured the eggs into the pan.

Lillian had been weaving around the Chef at work making lots of toast, while it seemed that the only thing for Sarah to do was make the tea It seemed no time at all before a big plate of thick toast, a warmed plate containing a substantial portion of mushroom omelette and a hot cup of tea was in front of her.

"Such a thoughtful idea to collect the mushrooms," Lillian closed her eyes as her tastebuds enjoyed themselves. "Though you need to be careful now," she added. "It's very easy to overbalance when you're so heavy up front," she said. "When I was carrying Mycroft, he was so big that there were a few times I couldn't even get myself off the bed in the morning," she smiled. "He was a big baby, long," she said, nodding in memory. "Over nine pounds."

Stopping to consider those details for a moment, Sarah returned to her omelette. "Then I'm going to get really huge in the next couple of months, aren't I?" she said dolefully before grinning. "With his height and my height, I'm probably going to end up carrying something more like a giraffe than a human," she shrugged. "Ah well. What goes up has to come down," she stopped suddenly; about to blush at the vulgarity but Lillian's giggles stopped her short. She smiled instead. What a mother-in-law that woman would make, Sarah thought, pulling herself up again very sharply as the idea floated in out of nowhere.

"So, where's nice for me to have a long but gentle stroll this morning?" she asked. "I feel the need to stretch my legs and the weather is great for a bit of a walk."

"It's just over the half-mile into the village, but the roads are narrow and with the high hedges, it's sometimes hard to see a car coming, and I'd rather not have you in the way of cars," Lillian sipped her tea. "Mycroft would have our hides if anything happened to you."

"Why don't I drop you two ladies down by the riverside walk and then you can mooch around the place until you want to come home and I'll pick you up?" Bill sat back, replete. "Those were lovely mushrooms," he smiled. "Excellent idea, that man."

"That sounds super, darling," Lillian was already clearing the dishes away. "Did Mycroft's assistant pack you a coat?" she asked, turning to their guest.

"Only a light one, but we're not exactly embarking on a quest into darkest Siberia, so it'll be fine," Sarah stood, heading for the stone stairs. "I'll be down in a tick."

"Take your time, my dear," Bill rolled up his sleeves and walked to the sink. "There's no rush."

Eynsford was something of a beauty spot in the Kent area; a little touristy in places, but that was hardly surprising. There were so many old houses and buildings in the area that tourists must be all over the place all summer. Walking down the narrow road to the old stone bridge over the River Darent, Sarah knew she was smiling without reason, but she didn't care in the least. It made such a nice change to be feeling good rather than the endless weepiness and grey days. As they walked, Lillian kept up a narration of all the things there were to do and see in the area.

"Not that this is a large village, you understand," she said, smiling and waving at an acquaintance across the street. "But what with Eynsford Castle and the old church and the Roman ruins," she said, "we seem to always have new things going on. We've even been in a couple of television programs you know," she added. "Three pubs and the train gets you to London in about an hour," Lillian smiled at another friend. "Suits Bill and I perfectly." Arriving in front of a white-painted building with tastefully painted windows and front door, Lillian stopped. "Here's something I wanted you to see particularly," she said, opening the door and stepping into what, judging by the woody fragrance in the air, was a massage clinic.

"Hello Moira," Lillian was all smiles as she greeted the receptionist. "Did Bill phone?"

"About fifteen minutes ago," the dark-haired woman nodded cheerfully. "We've got a quiet morning today, so anytime that suits, really."

 _Anytime that suits what?_

"Forgive me, my dear," her host turned and looked a little sheepish. "It was Mycroft's idea; he said you enjoyed having a massage and Trish, our masseuse is wonderful with her hands. Bill booked you in ... is that all right? How long does the full massage usually take?" she turned back to the cheerful receptionist.

"Not more than an hour, but Trish can do whatever the client prefers," she added. Smiling down at Sarah's bump. "Whatever makes you comfortable."

"Well, dear?" Lillian was watching Sarah's face. "Would you like a massage?"

Though she hadn't remotely considered such a thing, Sarah realised that to get back to her usual self, she needed to break the rut and routine she'd fallen into.

"I'd absolutely adore to have a proper massage," her smile increased when she saw the genuine look of delight on Lillian's face. "It would make me feel extremely decadent and pampered to have one in the morning," she grinned.

"Then I've got a few errands to run and will call back for you in just over an hour's time and we can decide what to do after that, would that suit?"

Like almost everything else about this unexpected stay in Kent, it suited her very well.

###

Her body was uncertain whether it should float dreamily along the pavement feeling melted and calm or zoom around from shop to shop in order to burn off some of the energy that almost crackled at her fingertips. In the end, Sarah did neither exactly, but her step at Lillian's side had a distinct bounce.

"Oh _hell_ ," the older woman's muttered words had Sarah looking around to locate the cause of such concern. A tall, thin woman of middle years was walking towards them with a wicker basket held in the crook of one arm. They'd both been spotted, so a quick about-turn would be neither civil nor terribly effective.

"Lillian!" the newcomer approached with a speed sufficiently swift to ensure that no getaway could be orchestrated short of a vigorous dash for freedom. "Just the person I wanted to see!"

"Hello Olivia," Mycroft's mother masked her sigh almost entirely, though Sarah was sure she'd heard a note of disquiet in Lillian's tone. "How's your father these days?"

"As well as can be expected, though you know how hard I try to make his life as comfortable as possible," the woman spoke to Lillian but her eyes were full of Sarah. "Just been to the library to pick up some fresh supplies," she added, gesturing to the several glossy texts filling the basket. "He likes the stories and the photography in these," she paused, looking directly at Sarah's midriff. "And who's this?"

Turning, Lillian rolled her eyes apologetically as she met Sarah's gaze.

"This is a friend of ... ours ... down from London for a few days," Lillian smiled politely. "Sarah Lawrence," she added, turning back to her guest. "Sarah, this is Olivia Stave-Gordon, her father was the last Master of Hounds in these parts, and Olivia works very hard to maintain the, ah, ambiance of the village."

"Pleasure to meet you," Sarah had met enough people like Olivia Stave-Gordon in London and elsewhere on her travels to get a fairly immediate sense of the woman's likely persona, especially after Lillian's desperate little mutter. "Eynsford is indeed a beautiful place."

"Yes, it is rather," the tall woman had a vaguely horsey look. "So how do you know the wonderful Lillian and William?" she inquired. "Unless ..." she paused, her eyes flickering once more across Sarah's expanded waistline. "Unless it's actually one of the boys that you know," she added, the suggestion unmistakable in her voice. "Sherlock is especially prominent in the area; he's our local celebrity," her gaze dropped to Sarah's left hand. _No ring_. Her mouth tightened. "Some people will do almost anything to get to know him."

Hearing Lillian inhale swiftly at her side, Sarah felt all her spare energy rush through her body and into the wide smile that suddenly grew on her face.

"Funny you should say that," Sarah maintained an openly innocent expression. "I came down here for a break away from people and my writing commitments," she said, her smile now glorious. "It's so restful here and Lillian and Bill are the perfect hosts."

"A writer?" Olivia was momentarily distracted. It never hurt to have an author or two on one's correspondence list. "How fascinating. And are you actually published?"

Lillian inhaled so sharply that Sarah had to throw an arm around the older woman so she didn't vibrate off the pavement with suppressed indignation.

Tilting her head towards the wicker carrier, Sarah's smile went up a few more watts. "Well, there's at least couple of mine in there," she said, radiantly. "Though I don't know if you have all of them."

Frowning, the Stave-Gordon woman peered into her own basket. Lifting up the stacked books, she squinted at the names on the covers, her eyebrows lifting in surprise before turning back to stare – this time – at Sarah's face.

"Oh, my dear, you really must come and have tea with my father this afternoon," her entire expression changed dramatically as she gushed. "Daddy simply _adores_ your books. You absolutely _must_ come. I _insist_."

Adopting a look of regret, Sarah shook her head. "Sorry," she said politely. "I'm very particular about the people I get to know. Another time, perhaps?" Taking Lillian's arm in hers, Sarah sailed on along the pavement as if she were off to another engagement.

There was silence for almost an entire minute.

"Olivia with either never speak to me again or she'll be on our doorstep tomorrow with a home-made cake," Lillian sounded perfectly comfortable with either outcome.

"I doubt you'll escape her machinations that easily, I'm afraid," Sarah laughed. "Having a local celebrity for a son and having a published author staying? She's the kind of person who probably mistakes rudeness for good breeding and she'll be all over you the next time you meet, though hopefully, it won't be while I'm here."

Silent for a little while longer, Lillian kept her arm threaded through Sarah's. "On that note, there's something I was going to mention before Bill picks us up," she said, turning to face her guest. "Why don't you stay a while longer?" she suggested. "I know you've only been here a couple of days, but the change in you has been remarkable; I'm sure you've noticed it too," she rushed on. "Why not stay until Christmas and then head back up to London? I'm positive Mycroft would be perfectly happy to have you taken up there and bring you back for any medical appointments or scans and what have you, but it would be so lovely to have you with us and you know Bill and I would be utterly thrilled to have you stay ..." she paused, searching Sarah's face for any hints as to her thoughts. "Unless you'd rather not, of course," she finished a little flatly.

 _Stay with the Holmes parents for the next couple of months? Absolutely impossible, of course. There was no way such an arrangement could work._

"Let me think about it," she heard the words come out of her mouth even as her brain was considering the nicest way to turn the offer down. _What was she doing?_ She had been dropped into one impossible situation after another, and now she was seriously contemplating making things even more complicated? The pregnancy was clearly rotting her brain. No possible good could come out of her staying for a second longer than she had to ... "Let me sleep on it," her mouth added.

"That's all Bill and I could ask of you, my dear," Lillian patted her arm as they strolled casually towards the small carpark by the nearest pub; Bill's pick-up spot.

"I'll have to rebraid your hair," Lillian observed while they were waiting. "It's come loose at the back."

"I was rolling around in sheer bliss as Trish did amazing things to my shoulders and neck," Sarah grinned again. "She's very good, isn't she?"

Bill rolled up in the Holmes' ancient Volvo, holding the back door open for Sarah to lever herself in, while Lillian slipped into the front.

"I've asked Sarah to stay with us until Christmas," she announced. "If she feels like it."

"That would be quite spiffy," Bill smiled at her in the rear-view mirror. "Means I get to try out some more of my cooking ... speaking of which, it's _Iffits_ night tonight, if that suits."

"Iffits?" Sarah made a face in the mirror.

"Iffit's in the fridge, we cook it," Lillian smiled. "It can lead to some adventurous dinners, I can tell you."

"I've got some nice rump steak and veg," Bill kept his eye on the road as he navigated the tight laneway. "I thought I'd make pasties."

"Can I make the pastry?" Sarah grinned. "I'm not a terribly brilliant cook, but I can make great pastry and bread," she shrugged. "No idea why."

"Cool hands," Lillian turned and smiled over her shoulder. "And a warm heart, no doubt."

Heading back up to her room ... Mycroft's room, to change into her slippers, Sarah saw that indeed her hair had come adrift; Lillians' beautifully plaited work now wispy and loose. Undoing the tie at the bottom of the braid, she shook it out, letting hair curve about her head in the most delicate of waves, each one cascading like a dark cloud around her face. Having had her hair braided while still damp seemed to agree with it and she smiled at herself in the mirror by the door of the old bedroom. It would be a shame to rebraid it just yet; it looked so pretty.

Heading carefully down the stairs into the kitchen, she announced that she was ready to do battle with the pastry, only to stop dead as she saw the stranger in their midst.

Taking in everything about her, Mycroft Holmes stood by the kitchen table as he turned and his eyes were wide and filled with light.

###

 **Note** : I have to travel for the next two weeks on business, where it's most unlikely I'll have time to do any significant writing, which means no updates (probably) for three weeks. Ack!


	7. Seven

"Hello," she paused at the bottom of the stone stairs, scanning his face. "I didn't know you were coming down from London."

"It was something of a last-minute thing," Mycroft slid both hands into his dark suit trouser pockets, lifting his chin fractionally as he assumed his habitual cool expression.

"Couldn't wait to see if you were feeling better, no doubt," Lillian bustled around with cups and saucers in the background while Bill stood over by the sink watching his son and their guest.

William Holmes had always known he wasn't the smartest member of his family, but he also knew the emotional thermometers of his boys, even now they were grown. He knew when they were pleased with themselves and when they were angry and when they were feeling upset. And it didn't take a genius right now to see that his eldest was staring at Sarah and doing his very best to show he was feeling absolutely nothing at all. And that had to mean something, didn't it? Despite the frankly bizarre manner in which Sarah had been drawn into the family's embrace, Mycroft was not the sort of man to do anything without proper cause. It was all very interesting even though Bill had no idea what convoluted scheme was in play. It was entirely possible that, despite his Machiavellian inclinations and the ability to play a set of moves fifteen steps ahead of everyone else, Mycroft wasn't quite sure either. Turning away before they caught him staring, he allowed a the ghost of smile to lift the corners of his mouth as he busied himself filling the big steel kettle.

"The baby's fine if you were wondering," Sarah patted her belly as she walked past the newcomer. "Growing, in fact," she added, tucking her hair behind her ears and rolling up her sleeves as she walked to the sink. Washing her hands, she turned to Lillian "Where's your grocery cupboard?"

"Pantry door's around the corner there," the older woman gestured to the far left of the kitchen. "Three big glass jars on the main shelf; plain flour in the jar on the left, self-raising in the one on the right, strong bread flour in the one in the middle. There's butter and margarine and lard in the fridge, and cooking salt and ground pepper over there," she pointed to a couple of small but solid-looking wooden boxes beside the Aga. I'll get you a big mixing bowl and a rolling pin you can do as much or as little work as you feel like doing," she finished, before turning to Mycroft. "I've asked Sarah to stay and have Christmas with us," she announced to her son in passing.

Already enroute to the pantry, Sarah missed how Mycroft took the news, but she'd bet he hadn't been expecting it. The notion that he could be surprised like any normal human pleased her, though she had no real idea why; it was about time he stopped getting things all his own way. Not that she'd yet decided whether or not to stay, of course.

The big pantry, though chilly, was a thing of beauty. It had clearly been a small creamery back in the day when the farmhouse actually had land and a dairy herd. A narrow, stone-floored room with wide black slate shelves around three sides and several very small windows, high up near the ceiling to let in light. The room was a mixed bag of smells; rustling brown-skinned onions and a long twist of garlic bulbs hung in large plaited braids from hooks in the walls. Big bunches of drying herbs scented the air; Bay, Thyme, Mint and Sage, their fading greens still dark against the whitewashed roughness of the walls themselves. The slightest hint of brass polish came from the great big copper settling pans hanging high up, out of the way. Boxes and jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes were stacked high and low. The narrow wall opposite the doorway was completely covered, floor to ceiling, with a cleverly designed criss-crossed bottle rack, most of the pigeon-holes inhabited by what appeared to be a goodly selection of wines. Along the floor beneath the lowest shelves, stood baskets of apples and potatoes and turnips on one side, and large cans of oils and jars of olives on the other. A small untouched wheel of cheese sat in one corner beneath a varied selection of dried sausages hanging in net bags of varying gauges. Sniffing, Sarah felt her stomach growl even though she wasn't really hungry. The aromas in this room made her mouth water.

Looking down, she saw a number of bulbous glass demijohns standing on the chilly stone floor holding different liquids; cooking wines, probably. In the old days, there would have been a cumbersome ice-box in here; a great wooden zinc-lined crate filled with a massive chunk of ice, packed in hard around with insulating hay to retain the freezing temperature. Sarah fancied she could still make out faint lines engraved forever on the flagstones where at least one of these monsters had rested.

Heading for the jars of flour in the middle of the nearest waist-level shelf, she pulled the left-hand one closer, checking the label. _Plain_. It was a solid weight in her arms as she turned back to the door. In which Mycroft was standing.

"Should you be carrying something that heavy?" he asked, reaching out long arms to take it gently from her.

"Mycroft, it's a glass jar with no more than a few pounds of flour in it," she protested, but let him take the container anyway. If he wanted to play Sir Lancelot, she had no reason to stop him.

Following the tall man back to the kitchen table, Sarah saw Lillian had cleared and cleaned half of it for her, and that it was the perfect height for rolling pastry.

"Are you staying for dinner?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his. "If I'm making pastry for pasties, I need to know how much to make."

"Can you actually cook?" his eyes were wide and Sarah would have sworn there was a teasing note in his voice. Flicking him a middle finger that neither Lillian nor Bill could see, she tilted her head and waited for an answer to her question.

"Am I staying, Mummy?" he called across at his mother though his eyes stayed locked with Sarah's.

"Of course you are, silly boy," Lillian looked around from slicing a fresh loaf of bread into a pile of sandwiches forming to one side as she stepped away to make the tea. "Lunch, everyone," she announced, placing a large china teapot on a central trivet and laying small tea-plates out for everyone around the uncleared half of the table.

"I wasn't even hungry until I stepped into that delicatessen of yours," Sarah smiled as she slipped into the nearest chair. "Reminds me of Italy," she added, taking one of the doorstep sandwiches Lillian insisted she have. "What a lovely pantry you have."

"We're fortunate to have such a fabulous old house," Bill poured tea, pushing the milk jug and sugar bowl to the centre of the space between them. "We've never wanted to move because we have everything we need right here."

"Do you have any land attached to the house or has the farm been entirely broken up?" Sarah bit into a juicy ham-and-tomato sandwich and closed her eyes in bliss. Even the bread tasted better out in the country.

"There's a tiny bit left over to one side of the house," Lillian tipped her head towards the far side of the kitchen. "We have a few apple trees over there. There's a couple of cherries too."

"And Mildred, Angelique and Bertie," Bill grinned around his sandwich. "Let's not forget our notorious _ménage à trois_." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Mycroft looked down at his plate and raised both eyebrows as his father's salacious _entendre_. "Chickens," he offered, for Sarah's edification.. "There are three elderly chickens in a run in the orchard. Do they still lay?" he asked, mildly interested.

"Oh good lord no," Lillian sipped her tea. "Even if Bertie had it in him to get on with his business, neither Mildred nor Angelique would be interested, poor souls," she waved a half-eaten sandwich in the air. "They crossed that Rubicon years ago."

"Then why on earth do you still keep them?" Mycroft looked between his parents. "You feed them, you care for them and I've seen you both out there talking to the wretched things. But if not for eggs, then why not have them for the pot and get some new ones?"

"Oh, Mycroft," his mother threw him a tragic look. "As if we could do anything of the sort."

"They gave us eggs for a good number of years, son," Bill nodded judiciously. "It would be unfair to put them on a block merely because they'd passed their prime."

"Bertie's prime was at least five years ago," Mycroft snorted as he picked up his teacup. "I prefer to draw a veil over that of the ladies."

"You are such a prude, Mykie," Lillian lifted the pot. "More tea, anyone?"

"Not for me, thanks. I'd love to have a quick look at your orchard and pet chickens if I could though," Sarah smiled. "I've always liked chickens; I've seen some beauties on my travels."

"Oh, Mycroft will walk you around, won't you darling?" Lillian was already clearing the tea things away. "Bill has to prepare the filling for the pasties and if you're staying for dinner Mykie, I might as well make your favourite pudding," and she was off, humming tunelessly to herself.

"Excellent idea," Bill stood too, his hands collecting the remainder of the plates and the knives. "Have a little stroll to help digest the food. Always a sensible idea."

"I'll just get the fat out to soften a bit," a little ungainly as she rose to her feet, Sarah headed towards the fridge. Opening the door, she quickly spotted the things she needed, bringing out a solid block of butter and the same of lard. "They won't be in the way here?" she asked, placing both items on a plate on the table.

"Not in the least, my dear," Lillian wrestled with the wrapper of a large bar of dark cooking chocolate. "You go off and see the chickens and have a little walk, then come back in when you feel like it. Plenty of time. Mykie will show you the way."

Replacing his cup with a slow and deliberate _clink_ , Mycroft heaved himself to his feet, rolling his eyes at his mother's back. "I need to borrow some boots, in that case," he said, looking down at the high polish of his shoes. "I refuse to ruin a perfectly good pair of Foster's gallivanting around the orchard," he muttered. "If I must play the bucolic tour-guide, I'll have your boots first, please," he raised his eyebrows at his father.

"I think there's still a pair of yours out in the porch," Bill nodded his head towards the back door. "Sarah found your old half-boots this morning when she went out mushrooming for breakfast."

"I had no idea who they belonged to," Sarah felt the need to defend her choice. "They were the best fit. I realise now how Goldilocks much have felt with the bowls of porridge."

Treating her to a deeply dubious look, Mycroft gestured for Sarah to precede him out to the small porch area where she'd found the tin trunk that morning. The ancient faded pair of boots she'd worn earlier were now dried and she slipped into them as before and pulled her coat around her.

Huffing in mild indignation, Mycroft identified a pair of the long boots he'd worn the last time he'd spent time at the farmhouse and, with a look of acute distaste, unlaced his smart expensive shoes and tucked his long legs and trouser bottoms into a pair of wellies.

"Oh, for a camera," Sarah murmured admiringly. "You'd probably start a new trend," she sounded entirely genuine and maintained a straight face despite the vague narrowing of his eyes.

"Come on, then," he said, sounding less than wildly enthusiastic. "Though there's nothing at all to see other than a few bare fruit trees and some antediluvian hens."

"I like chickens," Sarah repeated. "Antediluvian or otherwise."

Opening the back door and waiting as she closed it behind them, Mycroft indicated they should follow a narrow but well-worn track around to the left of the house. It curved around the nearside of Bill's beloved shed and in between piles of garden detritus.

"Mind you don't trip," he turned around to watch Sarah's feet as she picked her way through the matted and tangled grass. "Mother would never forgive herself if you came to grief here."

"Then I'll just have to make sure I don't come to grief, won't I?" Sarah didn't know why his statement irritated her, but it did. She watched where she put her feet even more carefully than before.

"My parents like you," Mycroft commented off-handedly as he kicked a broken branch out of their path. "Mother seems positively smitten," he added. "Are you going to accept her invitation?"

Inhaling the wondrous damp smell of leaf mould and the earthy British countryside, Sarah made a non-committal noise. "I'm still thinking about it," she said. "I said I'd make up my mind by tomorrow."

"If it's a question of organisation and transport, I'd be very happy to lay on a car for you whenever you needed to be in London," he said, turning to check her expression. "You seem to have changed dramatically for the better in the last couple of days ..." he paused, looking at her. "It would be a shame to take a retrograde step, especially when I can see that both my parents would absolutely love you to stay."

"It just seems such a lot of fuss to transfer my base of operations down here to Kent when it might be far simpler for me to come down for the odd day or two every now and again, if Lillian and Bill wanted me to come down," Sarah shrugged. "I'm not used to being wanted by people and I'm not sure how I should feel about it."

Stopping in the middle of the path Mycroft had a sudden smile on his face, as if it had caught him unawares. He looked unexpectedly amused.

"No wonder you struck a chord with my parents," he blinked, still smiling. "Your words might just have been spoken by either my brother or myself," he said. "Neither of us are what you might consider sociable by nature."

"It's not that I'm anti-social, really," Sarah took Mycroft's extended hand as he helped her step over a large puddle. "I simply grew up so entirely self-sufficient that now I sometimes don't even see some of the things that other people seem to find glaringly obvious."

"Such as?"

Sarah thought. "Such as I tend to like being by myself at times for no reason other than I like being by myself. Or if I'm in a room with someone, I'm entirely happy to sit there for hours without saying a word. In fact I find talking for the sake of talking quite tiring even though I really do enjoy sharing experiences with people," she shrugged a shoulder. "I have no idea what a psychologist would make of me, but frankly, I really don't care if I don't fit in," Sarah shrugged again. "I think the chosen method of this pregnancy sort of says it all, really."

Mycroft said nothing but an echo of a smile remained on his face as they walked further around the house. The narrow path widened out before fading away in the coarse grass. Stopping, Sarah realised they were standing at the edge of a small group of low branching trees situated in a roughly triangular plot of land.

There were four apple trees, or at least, four trees that looked very similar. Since not one of them bore a single leaf, it would be difficult for anyone other than an orchardist to be certain what was what. There were two other trees a little way off that had a different shape to their branches and Sarah assumed those to be the cherry trees Lillian had mentioned.

A soft clucking drew her attention over to a long low wood-and-chicken wire run in between the middle of the trees. _Ah_. The infamous _ménage à trois_.

Ducking carefully in between low-growing apple branches, Sarah made her way up closer to the run. It was a sizable creation, easily some twenty-feet long; attached in some way to a small but substantial wooden hen-house at one end. It was clearly designed to be moved whenever the chickens had pecked and scratched their way down to the bare ground in search of edibles.

"How on earth do your parents manage to move this enormous thing around by themselves?" she asked. "It must weigh a ton."

"As an entire object, it would be on the heavy side," Mycroft walked across to one of the several sets of wooden supports some five feet out from the sleeping quarters. "But if you see here," he pointed, indicating a series of cleverly hidden sliding bolts. "It comes apart in sections," he said. "Not perhaps the fastest way to move the thing, but very easy to handle. All my parents have to do is ensure the chickens are locked in their coop and as much time as needed may be taken in the proper relocation of the run," he waved his hand. "The chickens appear to like it at any rate."

And indeed, there were three content-looking birds paused in their current scratching, each one staring up at their human visitors with open greed in their eyes.

"I believe their expect to be fed; my mother really does spoil her livestock."

"Just as well I brought a piece of bread for them then, isn't it?" Sarah grinned, taking a dried piece of toast from her pocket and pulling off a couple of chunks for the two birds nearest her, by their similar colouring, most likely Angelique and Mildred.

Bertie took a slow but determined walk towards Mycroft, fixing the human with a dark and beady stare.

"I have no victuals for you, I'm afraid," Mycroft lifted his open palms as if the cockerel would understand. The beady eyes glared on.

"Here, give him this or you'll have nightmares tonight about a giant chicken chasing you around a field," Sarah handed him the remainder of the dried bread. "Feed him; he looks sad."

Staring directly back at the hopeful creature, Mycroft sighed in mild exasperation but dropped the piece of bread in through the holes at the top of the frame. Bertie examined the offering with great care before deciding it might be worthy of investigation. With the three chickens all busily pecking at the bits of bread, Mycroft looked around the orchard, such as it was.

"I really think you should consider staying, you know," he spoke quietly, staring around at the small wedge of land. "Apart from the fact that my mother appears to be thrilled to have you here, you seem much improved since last we spoke."

Staring down at the three chickens, Sarah chewed the inside of her cheek. Inhaling briefly, she turned and waited until Mycroft's gaze returned to her.

"Your parents are both lovely people," she said, shortly. "And were it only a case of me staying with them and making a few trips up to town and back, I'm sure there wouldn't be a problem," she paused. "But there is a problem."

"Which is?" Mycroft slid both hands into his trouser pockets, looking as if all she need do was to explain the obstacle and he would remove it on the spot.

"You, Mycroft," Sarah lifted her chin and met his eyes square-on. "You are the problem."

There was a silence of several seconds as he digested this information. "In what way?" he asked, a small frown settling over his face.

"In what way?" Sarah almost laughed, bemused. "In what _way?_ Do you want the itemisation in alphabetical or chronological order? I hardly know where to begin!"

"Humour me," he suggested, removing his hands from his pockets and folding both hands in front of his body as his features were schooled into neutrality.

"Right then," Sarah felt a flick of temper as she faced the tall man in front of her without the slightest reluctance. "If you want to hear it all, then try this," she lifted her hands in the air, enumerating each item with a raised digit. "First, you access my private and extremely confidential information at the fertility clinic because it suited your personal desire to do so. Then you send around some irritating dick of a bully-boy to intimidate me into giving you what you want, again, because it pleased _you_ to try and get your own way." Sarah straightened her back and stood more comfortably before she went onto the next point.

"Next," she said, "you not only tracked my movements, but you started interfering with them; God knows how unless you managed to nobble Milton Ajax ..."

Mycroft's blink was deliberate and Sarah paused incredulously.

"You got to Milt?" she asked in disbelief. "You actually suborned my agent into helping you keep tabs on me?"

Allowing a small expression of regret to lift his eyebrows, Mycroft looked faintly repentant. "And your obstetrician, Doctor Mandal," he sounded less than wholly contrite. "Since you work alone, there really wasn't anyone else I could ask."

Sarah felt a surge of sudden heat rising into her face. How dare he stand there and make everything sound as if it was alright to do such things? How _dare_ he?

"You set me up with your private assistant as a spy in Moscow!" she couldn't help her voice rising in volume.

"I did," Mycroft nodded sagely. "Though in fairness to Anthea, she was most reluctant to act as an agent for me until I explained the situation to her in terms she could appreciate."

"And what terms were they, you sanctimonious _prick?_ " Sarah threw her hands in the air as she felt her temper finally explode. She scowled furiously across a few feet of soggy grass at the face of an apparently still-calm Mycroft.

His gaze grew dark and flint-hard as he stared back into her eyes and stepped closer.

"I made it clear that she was helping protect the most precious thing I could possibly imagine," his voice was low but filled with a surprising fervour. "That she would be there, with you, in case anything happened ... went wrong ... in case something endangered your child ... _my_ child ..." his words were roughly bitten off.

"This baby is connected to you only in the most flimsy of ways!" Sarah yelled. " _A few cells is the only connection you can possibly have!_ My child has _nothing_ to do with you except in the most basic of biological associations. _This is not your child!_ You can't _do_ these things to people, you can't behave in this way and not expect there to be _consequences!"_

"And even given all that you say," Mycroft dragged down a harsh breath as he faced her, "it may still be the closest I ever get to creating a life _beyond my own_..." he stopped and closed his eyes momentarily. "Everything you accuse me of is true," he acknowledged, his chin lifting as he took another deep breath. "I refute none of it and will accept whatever reprobation and penalty you deem appropriate, but know this," he paused, stepping closer still, until she could almost feel the heat of him. "I would do it all again and more if it meant protecting the one chance my family has to live beyond me," he growled. "Hate me, loathe me if you will, but this child, as yet unborn, has more value to me than my own existence, of my parents and yes, even of my own brother," he snapped. "If it needed my own heart to survive, I would give it gladly and think it a good bargain."

The violent passion burning in his face, the startling vividness of blue in his eyes ... Sarah realised he meant every syllable.

"So it wasn't actually _me_ you were keeping tabs on, then," she murmured, her hands resting automatically on the swell of her belly.

His back rod-straight and rigid, Mycroft stared blindly up into the pale blue of an early afternoon sky with his hands clenched-tight at his sides. He sucked in the cold air, holding the breath inside until his shoulders eased and he exhaled with a strangled sigh. He closed his eyes again as he seemed almost to fold inside himself. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I apologise," his voice assumed a stilted, formal tone as his features became empty and austere, his eyes returning slowly to Sarah's face. "I don't usually allow myself to ... give vent in such a boorish manner," he adjusted buttons and tugged the jacket of his suit straighter. "I'll ensure you no longer need to have any contact with me in the future, though I would ask, for my mother's sake, that you at least keep in touch with her about the child's welfare," he hesitated. "You have no idea how much it would mean to Mummy ... to the family," he said, looking down at his boots. "Whatever you feel about my behaviour, please don't keep the child from ... her."

He had nearly said _me_ , don't keep the child from _me_ , and Sarah knew it. Her anger had quite vaporised. Not because she'd felt remotely intimidated by Mycroft or his words, and certainly not because he had entirely convinced her with his argument. It was because it sounded as if he had spoken out honestly and frankly about a very human need and it probably wasn't something he did very often. It had been hard; she had seen his struggle. She respected struggle; it was a prerequisite to things of value.

A silence fell between them, the only sounds were the soft clucking of the chickens

"I have a question for you," she said, not really knowing what she was doing, but willing to go with the flow of things that felt right.

"Yes?" Mycroft lifted his head a little, looking sideways at her. "Anything."

"Why is there a small figurine of Batman in your bedroom?" she asked, watching his face for the slightest flicker of expression. "Why was it hidden away but not thrown away?"

"A toy?" he stood uncertainly, his head tilting down and to the left as he interrogated his memory. His eyebrows rose as an image appeared in his thoughts. "About this big?" he sketched a small distance between the outstretched middle finger and thumb of one hand. "Grey, plastic and a probable remnant from the early seventies?"

Saying nothing, Sarah folded her arms, raised her own eyebrows and waited.

"Ahh ..." Mycroft sighed, stretching his back straight again. "The whimsies of a child," he shook his head. "I wanted to be like him," he said, eventually. "The Caped Crusader, battling the villains of Gotham City and keeping everyone safe. I think it was the combination of anonymous violence and knowing the side of righteousness and justice would prevail, that attracted," he wrinkled his nose in some embarrassment. "I never actually donned a cape, unlike Sherlock who was convinced he was the reincarnation of Blackbeard and swashed his buckler at the drop of a hat."

"And are you a caped crusader?" Sarah asked, her eyes still fixed on his face. "Is that what you ended up doing after you left Oxford so precipitously? Does the Home Office pay you to be on the side of righteousness and justice ..." she paused thoughtfully. "Or is it the anonymous violence that you're so good at? Savile Row suits and late model Jags don't usually fit into a Civil Servant's budget."

His eyes held hers and for a while there was more silence between them. A different kind of silence though; one with possibilities.

" _Anything_ , you said," she reminded him.

"A little of both," he responded stiffly. "Please don't ask me anymore; the Official Secrets Act is not something one takes lightly these days."

"So not your common-or-garden paper pusher, then?" Sarah examined him assessingly, a decision sliding into her mind without conscious awareness. She didn't even know she was going to say anything until her mouth opened and she heard the words with her own ears. "I have to help make dinner," she said. "And tell your mother I would be happy to stay for Christmas, I think."

"You're staying?" the frown was back on his face. Apparently he'd been sure she wanted nothing more to do with any of them.

"Yes, I think so," Sarah was already walking back to the house so she couldn't see his face. It was the surprised tone of his voice that made her realise he'd expected her to flounce off back to London at the first opportunity. How little he knew about normal people. "Even in the short time I've been here, I've grown very fond of your parents; they're lovely people and a child could do far worse than be related to them."

"And ... the rest of the family?" There was a new uncertainty there. It satisfied her.

"I've not yet met Sherlock so I can't really say," Sarah managed to navigate the big puddle alone this time.

"You know I wasn't referring to my brother," Mycroft's voice held a dry note, but at least it was an honest one.

"Of course I know, and to be frank, I'm not sure about you," Sarah turned to face him. "But at least we can look at the situation now like adults, with transparency and real understanding," she said. "I won't play your games, Mycroft," her own dark blue eyes met his. "I won't have anything to do with underhanded or manipulative behaviour. This ... alliance I may have with your family is not going to happen the usual way, with two people falling in love and deciding to start a family and all the kinds of arrangements such a decision entails," she blinked, but held his gaze unwaveringly. "This is about grown-ups working out the best way to deal with an unusual situation and everybody finding their most comfortable place," she paused. "I know what my place is and I'm already fairly comfortable with where Lillian and Bill might stand, but you ... I'm not sure about you yet."

An expression of some resignation shaped his features and Mycroft nodded economically. "I'll leave you alone with my parents then," he pursed his mouth. "I cannot fault your position under the circumstances, and I have no wish to add any further ..."

"Mycroft," Sarah interrupted. "You've been an arse and, much though you've pissed me off royally, I can actually begin to understand why you behaved the way you did," she hesitated, then realised she was already in far too deep to back completely away now. "Even if it's only a few cells, there's still a connection, I suppose," she gave a rueful half-smile. "And at some point there's going to be a discussion of parentage with this one," she shrugged, patting her tummy. "Let's go inside and behave like adults, shall we?"

"Do you want me to stay for dinner?" he asked eventually. Tentatively.

"Only if you promise not to be rude about my pastry," she smiled carefully.

"Then please allow me to offer you help you around this log," Mycroft walked in front of her and extend his hand in support. "As one adult to another."

"As one adult to another, I'm fine with you helping me. The pathway is actually a little slippery."

A corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "A good description of life generally, I think you'll find," he used his boots to clear the way. "Though having a family does tend to lend one a different perspective of things."

"Yes, I'm already finding that out," Sarah smiled properly. "Your father is adorable; charming and funny and kind," she shook her head. "No wonder your mother is so happy; they have such a solid relationship. They make my parents look like delinquent caretakers."

"My parent's relationship have always made me wonder where Sherlock and I went wrong," Mycroft paused his step, thinking. "It was likely something to do with the need to explore more than Kent that drove us away from here; not merely in a physical sense but in an intellectual one," he turned to meet her eyes. "And yet my mother gave almost everything she cared about away for her children," he looked briefly sombre. "I can do no less than she, can I?" There was a faint but hopeful lift to his voice.

Allowing Mycroft to assist her up the few low steps to the back door of the house, Sarah acknowledged that Bill was manifestly Mycroft's father. Perhaps this new air of openness wouldn't last for long, but while it did, she would match it. It was what adults did.

"Did you have a nice little walk?" Lillian smiled widely at the pair of them as they stepped inside and kicked off their boots.

"Your chickens are wonderful," Sarah took off her coat and rolled up her sleeves prior to washing her hands again. "That coop thing you have out there is ingenious; how on earth did you think of such an idea?"

"Oh that was one of Mycroft's brainwaves," Bill was once more wrapped in a pristine white apron as he diced the beef over on an island benchtop. "Designed the thing and even went to the carpenter's workshop to show them how he wanted the bolt-fastenings set up," he added. "And he always helps us move it around when he's down here, so there's really no effort involved at all. The chooks seem to like it, at least."

Turning to Mycroft with raised eyebrows and a somewhat questioning expression, Sarah was treated to the back pages of the local newspaper as the chicken-coop designer hastily took a seat and barricaded himself from the conversation.

"Right then," Sarah clapped her hands together. "Let me amaze you all with the pastry-making skills I learned after being abducted in Marseilles one night by a drunken Irish chef and his boyfriend," she said, reaching for the flour.

At the sound of Sarah's words, Lillian turned slowly, glancing between the young woman and her son. Her antenna twitched wildly, telling her that something significant had happened out in the orchard between the two of them. But as they were still clearly talking to each other, it couldn't have been that serious. With a brief smile, she turned back to the pudding she was mixing.


	8. Eight

There was always something so soothing about making pastry; Sarah closed her eyes as an unexpected shaft of sunlight pointed its way through a kitchen window. All you had to do was caress it into existence, feel its softness between your fingers, like the skin of a lover.

Her eyes blinked open sharply. Now where had _that_ thought come from?

"Is there any ice-water?" she asked over her shoulder. "Tap water would do if it's cold enough. Sorry; I should have organised it before I started."

"No sooner asked for than supplied, my dear," Bill brought over a tall plastic Brita jug filled with icy-cold liquid. "Will this be enough?"

"Oh ample," Sarah smiled at him. "I just need enough to bind the pastry together and cold helps keep the gluten from stretching and being overworked, which is why all the professional pastry-chefs insist on marble worktops," she deftly poured a well-judged amount into the large bowl in front of her. "Is there room in the fridge for this to rest for about thirty minutes before you need it? It really does better once it's been chilled."

"My goodness, you sound as if cooking were a large part of your life," Lillian tried to opened a wide, squat jar filled with something vaguely lumpy and golden that sloshed around inside. Since her husband was back to dicing vegetables and Sarah was knee-deep in pastry, she turned to her son to open it for her.

"Careful now, it's sticky," she said. "It's the last of the crystallised ginger I made for the Harvest Festival dinner. "I'll have to make some fresh for Christmas, but I can't bear to waste this and I know it's your favourite, Mykie."

"Crystallised ginger?" Sarah couldn't help but pause and stare at the jar. "My favourite too. Have you tried putting a couple of bay leaves in the final sugar-boil?" she asked. "They do it that way in parts of Tunisia and there's an amazingly subtle difference," she said, still eyeing the jar. Her mouth watered at the imagined taste. "I met a woman called Zerrin in Turkey and she showed me how they made it there, as well as the Turkish way of making Lokum."

" _Lokum?_ " Lillian watched as Mycroft's long fingers grappled with the stiff jar lid.

"Turkish delight," Sarah went back to gently kneading the pastry dough. "The real stuff made with rosewater and lemon syrup. It's terribly sweet but utterly fabulous at the end of the day with one of their tiny cups of coffee."

"I have a weak spot for Turkish delight," Bill stopped chopping for a moment. "You have to give me the recipe so I can make it for Christmas."

"Would you like to try some of my mother's ginger?" Mycroft finally had the lid off and he stood there, jar in one hand, lid in the other.

Lifting her flour-covered hands from the bowl, Sarah shrugged. "Not really able right now," she smiled. "But I can smell how gorgeous it is from here."

"Allow me, in that case," Mycroft reached into a kitchen drawer, lifting out a long pickle fork. With a dextrous stab, he impaled one of the pieces, holding the fork up for Sarah to take.

"Hold still," raising both hands like a surgeon scrubbed for theatre, she stepped closer and bent over the fragrant morsel, snagging it between her teeth and stepping back, licking her bottom lip as the juicy, sugary pulp refused to be eaten neatly. "Mmm ... _delicious_ ," Sarah smiled back at Lillian as she appreciated the golden spicy sweetness. "You using it in the pudding you're making?"

"I was planning to," Lillian stopped, staring at her eldest son as she waited to be handed the opened jar. "Is anything the matter, Mykie?" she asked, frowning as he remained motionless with the denuded pickle fork still in his hand.

"Not at all," he blinked several times and cleared his throat. "Here," he passed over jar, lid and fork, returning to his chair where he once more barricaded himself behind the local newspaper.

"There," Sarah carefully rubbed her fingertips clean of the pale, soft dough. "Let me pop this in the fridge to rest and then I can roll it out. How do you want the pastry, Bill? Four equal sized pieces or smaller bits, or what?"

"Do me four grown-up portions," he suggested. "I can take it from there. They don't take long to cook in an Aga."

"The sun was streaming in the windows now, the last of late-Autumn's few golden moments. It would have been nice to simply sit and enjoy it, but Sarah was full of nervous energy after the discussion with Mycroft in the orchard. _That_ , she realised now, had been the start of a much longer conversation, and part of her wanted to see where it was going to go. She had no idea how long Mycroft was going to be in Kent, so it made sense to strike while the iron was still hot.

"That field I was in this morning getting the mushrooms," she said, staring out of the window facing towards the rear of the property. "Would the owner mind if I took a stroll across it later? It's not planted to crops as far as I can see, just green silage. Would they mind, do you think?"

"Of course not, my dear," Lillian was spooning chunks of syrupy ginger into a large pestle. "Old man Saunders who owns most of the fields around here is going to plant spring potatoes, so he'll be tilling the field in December most likely. There's nothing for you to harm, though the ground is hard and very uneven and you might take a tumble."

"I expect Mycroft won't mind accompanying me to make sure that doesn't happen," Sarah smiled as the newspaper fortress lowered a fraction and a pair of narrowing eyes appeared over the top. "I'll just go and get a warmer top from upstairs and then I'll come down and roll out the pastry for you."

In her temporary bedroom, Sarah dug around in the big bag Anthea had packed for her, finally locating a long-sleeved, loose-knit baggy jumper which clung in a comforting manner, though it made her enlarged abdomen seem even bigger than before.

"How you doing in there?" she asked absently, pressing the palm of one hand flat against her belly. Her inquiry was answered by two small kicks and something that felt like an internal somersault. "Quite the acrobat today, hmm?" she smiled, wondering what the baby looked like now. She was due for another scan in a couple of days and needed to return to London for that. Would she be coming back to Kent afterwards? She wanted to ... _but_.

Puffing out her cheeks in a sudden exhale, Sarah realised that she needed the answers to a few more questions first. Mycroft knew all about her plans, but she knew nothing of his and before she committed herself to any deeper connection with the Holmes family, no matter how wonderful Lillian and Bill were, it would be sensible to get a clearer picture of how the land lay. She couldn't very well demand transparency from Mycroft if she wasn't prepared to act the same way, and it was entirely possible he had some ideas that she mightn't like. Things between them needed to be clear from now on.

Heading back downstairs, she rolled up her sleeves and rinsed her hands again under the tap before heading to the fridge and removing the bowl of resting pastry. It was nicely chilled.

"Here," Bill handed her a clean apron. "You'll get flour all over you otherwise," he smiled. "I'll even help you put it on." He slipped the neck tape over her head and gathered the two ties around the middle of her back tied a large bow. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Lillian came over, mixing bowl in one hand, wooden spoon in the other as she mixed the ginger batter for the pudding. "That looks lovely and soft," she said, gauging the pastry. "If you ever get tired of writing travel stories, you could always write about your food adventures."

"Perhaps," Sarah deftly divided the ball of dough into four and flouring both the table and the rolling pin, she set to.

###

"I see that not even a trek into darkest Kent has diminished your penchant for exploration," Mycroft muttered, steadying her elbow as they made the small jump from the edge of the narrow roadway into the field itself. "Though what the attraction might be in an empty and rutted pasture, I cannot fathom."

"Oh come _on_ ," Sarah cheerfully booted a chunk of dried mud out of the way. "You of all people can't imagine I'm doing this for any other reason than to be able to talk privately."

Mycroft paused, assessing her face. Her tone seemed perfectly amiable and there was no indication that her earlier displeasure had returned ... but still ...

"There is more you wished to discuss?"

"Depending on what you tell me now, there might be a great deal more," Sarah kept her eyes on the field's far horizon, her voice level and unstressed. "It occurred to me that while I was having my rant earlier, I never actually asked you what _you_ wanted out of all this, and I realised that whatever it was would have quite an important influence on how you were going to act in the future and so I felt it sensible to get the picture from your perspective," she turned, a half-smile on her face. "So tell me."

His expression was wary. "Tell you what?"

"I assume you do _have_ some idea of how you'd like this to work out for you?" she paused too, evaluating the concerned look on his face.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft stopped walking and stared around the empty field in the already fading afternoon. This time of the year, the nights drew in earlier every day. It would be dusk soon.

"I think assuming things are obvious is a dangerous activity for both of us."

"You're carrying my child," he spoke abruptly, as if the words were unwilling to come out.

"And?"

"And ... I would like to be ... involved with it, in some way."

"Involved how?"

Mycroft looked uncertain. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable again," he said, watching her expression. "I don't want to trespass in areas you might consider out of bounds."

Sarah looked up at the first early stars just starting to show high up in the sky. It was getting cold now that the sun was dropping.

"Let's say I'm prepared to listen to what you want," she said.

Pursing his mouth, Mycroft turned to face her full-on. "I'd like to be kept informed of the child's wellbeing, their health, progress, that sort of thing," he frowned in thought.

"Would you want to see the child on a regular basis? Do you want it to know you are the father?" Sarah folded her arms. "Would you want to have regular interaction with it? Family visits, that sort of thing?"

He looked surprised. "You would be willing to allow this?"

Sarah shrugged. "I'm not sure," she said honestly. "But if I don't know what it is you actually want, then I can't very well consider it, can I?"

"My parents would obviously hope to be involved too," Mycroft shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "They already see themselves as grandparents."

"And that was another bit of manipulation on your part, wasn't it?" Sarah scowled at him. "Bringing me down here when I was too overwrought to think straight and then dumping me on your mother who's too sweet for her own good," Sarah aimed a particularly vicious kick at a nearby clod of earth.

"Would you believe me when I say that there was no pretext in that idea: I genuinely wasn't sure what to do to help you and I knew my mother probably would," he sighed. "Perhaps not the wisest of ideas in the long run, however."

"Well, as it happens, I'm glad to have met both your parents; they're wonderful people and make me realise what I missed out on as a child myself," Sarah sighed. "They deserve to be grandparents if they want to be."

Mycroft gave her a sceptical look. "You seem to have changed your outlook quite radically since our first discussion," he said doubtfully.

"I'm a pragmatic sort of person, Mycroft," Sarah turned to look back at the farmhouse. Lights were already glowing in the kitchen windows. "I might not like what you've done, or how you did it, but I don't have a magic wand that will undo it all. We have to go forward from this place, not dwell on our mistakes."

" _Our_ mistakes?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Well, your mistakes and my hubris," Sarah scratched her chin. "I thought I could do this alone; that it would be easy and I'd simply bend my existing life around the new situation. Of course, it turns out that things don't happen quite that neatly."

"Then you're saying that this would be a mutually beneficial arrangement?" Mycroft stepped closer to see her eyes in the increasing twilight. "That you see value in such an agreement?"

"For both myself and the child, yes," Sarah exhaled slowly. "I never realised what I had missed growing up. I think this child of ours would definitely benefit from being around your parents ... as would I."

 _This child of ours._ Mycroft felt the hairs at his neck prickle, but of course, it was getting chilly. "Shall we return to the warmth of the house?" he suggested. "Mummy would make an heroic attempt at skinning me alive if you caught a chill and she felt I was responsible," he gestured towards the house. "I fear she already sees you as the daughter-in-law she is never likely to have."

"Then I think I will stay here, with them, until Christmas," Sarah started walking back to the house. "Though I need to go for a scan the day after tomorrow and I'd like to hire a car if I'm going to be down here for any length of time."

"Hire a car?" Mycroft's tone was instantly less than enthusiastic. All manner of unpleasant things might go wrong in a hired car. "Is that necessary?"

Sarah stopped dead, turning to meet his eyes. "Yes. It _is_ necessary because _I_ feel it's necessary," she said. "I have no intention of explaining myself or asking permission for anything I do, and if that's going to upset your particular applecart, then I'll return to London first thing in the morning and that will be the end of this conversation. You are not my husband or partner, and you have no right to question, let alone _veto_ my actions. Is that understood?"

"Quite." He was still reluctant.

"Right then," Sarah sucked down a breath of cold air. "Now that I've got that off my chest, I'm feeling hungry and my toes are getting cold in these old boots of yours," she said. "I think I'd like to have a nice hot cup of tea while you critique my pastry-making skills."

"Not sure I dare," Mycroft responded in a resigned tone. "I'm fairly certain both my parents would happily heave me out into the cold if I offered even a suggestion of criticism," his tone was dry. "You have two stalwart allies in that house."

"They are lovely," Sarah smiled as she took his hand to help her over the ridge at the edge of the field and back onto the track. "To be honest, I'm not sure if I want to stay because of the baby or because I'm enjoying their company so much myself."

"Does it really matter?" he asked quietly, steadying her elbow as she found her balance on the path. "As long as you see benefit in the situation, then the question is moot."

"I suppose so," she took his hand again as he helped her up the steps to the back door. The dry warm inside was a delicious change from the deceptively chilly air beyond. Sarah was surprised how quickly it had become cold. There was also a fabulously savoury smell of cooking pasties and the fragrance of such a simple meal made her mouth water.

Her passenger seemed to sense her delight and decided to make their presence known. " _Ahh_ ," she grimaced, holding the side of her stomach. "Our little friend is wearing boots tonight," she wrinkled her nose and leaned one outstretched hand flat against the closed door as she breathed in, trying to relocate her kidneys by sheer power of will.

"I tell you, it's a boy," Lillian came over, resting a gentle hand on Sarah's back until the worst of the pummelling had passed. "My two were exactly the same," she added, walking back to the Aga and grabbing a pair of heavy duty oven gauntlets to move various things from one oven to another. "Dinner won't be for another half-hour. Would you like to see some photos of the boys as children?"

"Oh lord, mother, _no_ ," Mycroft clapped both hands to his face. "The one foolproof way to alienate people is to bore them into a coma with baby photos. For the love of god, _I beg you_ , not while I'm on the same continent."

"Nonsense, Mykie," Lillian dismissed her eldest's histrionics with a flap of her hand. "By all means stay in here with your father and make tea, but Sarah and I are going to be in the front parlour looking at several large albums of photographs with or without your assistance," she added, winking slyly at her guest. "He won't be able to resist," she whispered.

The parlour was a wide and spacious room with dark walls and large, overstuffed chintz settees and solid old leather chairs. A wonderfully warm log fire had the room toasty even in the corners. Heavy curtains were ready to be drawn across the wide garden windows, blocking out the chilly night air. There was a wide and comfortably high coffee table that had seen better days, already covered with books and a variety of hefty magazines.

Crossing to one of the shelves that stood dotted around the walls of the room, Lillian pulled down three fat leather-covered photo albums, each one clearly a good age.

"This takes me back," she said, dropping all three books on the coffee table before pulling one of them onto her lap. "I can't remember the last time I looked at the boys' pictures," she added. "These go back to Mycroft's infancy."

This would be the best opportunity she might ever have to get an idea of what her child might look like as a baby, and Sarah was unapologetically fascinated.

The stiff covers of the album opened easily to several pages of the much younger Holmes parents as a smiling couple in a number of photos, with Lillian increasingly pregnant in floaty floral summer dresses.

"Mycroft was an autumn baby," she said, turning the pages to the first of the baby pictures. "October was mild that year and we were even able to take him outside for a few weeks before it got too cold."

Sarah turned the big book around until she could see more clearly. Without conscious thought, her mouth curved upwards. A laughing infant lay on a sheepskin on a high couch of some kind, holding what looked like a string of wooden beads in one hand while waving the other one madly in the air. The photo was in colour, though it was fading badly. There was unmistakable evidence of gold-auburn hair wisping across the delicate head and the eyes were wide and blue.

"What a lovely smile," Sarah smiled again herself. "And look at those long legs ... no wonder he ended up so tall."

"The doctors said he'd probably get into athletics," Lillian sounded amused. "With his legs they said he'd be brilliant at the high jump."

Both women smiled at the notion of Mycroft in athletics.

There were more photos of the infant boy; in his highchair at dinner, sitting on the floor surrounded by toys and one memorable one of him in a baby-bath covered in bubbles.

There was the approaching sound of clinking china.

"I have no intention of being mortified by comments on my dimples and thus I shall leave you both in peace," Mycroft announced, placing a tea-tray strategically on the coffee table and stepping back. "I have been advised that dinner will be in approximately twenty minutes," he poured tea in preparation to his departure.

"But you look so sweet, naked and bubbly," Sarah bit down on the inside of her cheeks to keep the grin from her face. "It's a good look on you."

Mycroft fixed her with a cool stare. "None of those photos were taken with my permission," he offered archly. "I may one day have to confiscate them in the interests of national security."

"You may make all the threats you like, Mykie," his mother was clearly having none of his bombast. "But this is one picture you shall never take from me," she said, holding up the book for Sarah's easier inspection as she reached for her tea.

 _Oh_.

A small child still but no longer a tiny baby, Mycroft sat propped up in the corner of an armchair, both arms and legs wrapped very tightly around a small, fluffy polar bear. The toy's right ear was being thoroughly investigated for its edible qualities.

"He was biting everything at that stage," Lillian smiled again, shaking her head. "Even the poor old dog came in for a fair share of Mycroft chewing on its ears. Teething was such a joyous experience with both the boys," she sounded long-suffering.

Walking around the back of the sofa to see the picture for himself, Mycroft leaned closer, extending his hands along the back of the couch. "The sheer volume of germs I ingested in my infancy clearly prepared my intestinal flora for a gamut of microbes in later life," he observed. "Why can't I remember the name of the dog?"

"What? Old Flossie?" Lillian peered up at her long-legged son. "My goodness, she went to the great kennel in the sky before your first birthday. No wonder you can't remember her name. But you remember who this is, don't you?" she asked, turning several pages until she hunted down the picture she was after.

Still a child, but now about five or six. In this photo, he was crouched down on the grass outside the farmhouse with his arm around a young red-setter, the animal lolling in the summer sun, a long pink tongue dangling. The child Mycroft's hair was still fair, though already beginning to darken towards its adult shade.

"Redbeard," Mycroft's voice was soft. "I went everywhere with that dog; we must have run for miles."

"That was the year before Sherlock was born, I believe," Lillian sounded thoughtful as she peered back in her own memory of the time. "Anytime we wanted to find you, all we had to do was whistle for the dog and you wouldn't be far behind," she laughed. "We knew you'd never come if we called your name."

"There was a lot that interested me," Mycroft leaned a little more, reaching between the two women and turning the page over with his long fingers. "I wanted to see if the books were correct."

"What books?" Sarah was curious.

Mycroft turned his head and threw her a half smile. "All of them."

"Something both the boys shared from an early age was an insatiable need to know if everything was true and real," Lillian paused. "But at least you weren't quite as destructive as your brother," she murmured. "And your father was fortunate in having two sheds."

There was a loud call from the kitchen announcing that dinner was ready.

" _Oops_ , talking too much as always," Lillian pushed herself off the sofa. "I must put the pudding-sauce on to warm through while we eat," she added, heading briskly into the kitchen, leaving Sarah and Mycroft alone with the photos.

"You can see now why I cannot abide this ritual torture by photograph," he said, helping Sarah up from the soft seating. "I doubt the Geneva Convention would permit such treatment to be levied upon prisoners of war."

"Oh will you just stop," Sarah poked him in the arm with a finger. "You make all this sound as if it's the worst possible thing that's ever happened to you, when I can say for a fact that you were a sweet infant and very handsome child. I can't think what you imagine the problem is."

He stopped and stared at her as if she'd begun speaking in Lithuanian.

"You haven't mentioned the dimples," he said hesitantly.

"I haven't seen any dimples," Sarah shook her head at him as she walked ahead into the kitchen. "But I shall certainly be looking for them after dinner," she added, amusement in her voice.

"What's this in the fridge, Mycroft?" Lillian was clearly unsure about the large, dark green bottle in her hand. "Champagne?"

"Oh, I brought that down for your guest," he said, reaching a hand out for the bottle. "Perhaps champagne is not what a London _sommelier_ would recommend to accompany Cornish pasties," he frowned thoughtfully. "But I feel we have moved beyond such _bourgeois_ rules, don't you?" he smiled at Sarah as he hunted for champagne glasses in a nearby cupboard.

"Well, I'm game if everyone else is," Bill brought over four dinner plates, each boasting the most perfect looking piece of golden savoury pastry.

About to remind Mycroft that she really couldn't drink, Sarah noticed the bottle's label and saw it was the same non-alcoholic vintage she'd had in the St Regis in Moscow. It must have cost a fortune.

"Oh, you remembered," she said, smiling at him as he popped the cork and poured four glasses. "That's very thoughtful of you. Not to mention generous."

"But if this is for Sarah, then we shouldn't be drinking it, Mycroft," Lillian looked affronted.

"There's another five bottles in the back of the car," he smiled a little smugly before looking momentarily tense. "Which I realise now was somewhat presumptuous of me, however, I simply thought it would be pleasant for all of us to finally have a little celebration," he announced, taking his seat opposite Sarah.

"Which is?" she paused in the act of unfolding her napkin.

Waiting until everyone had their glass of fizzy, Mycroft raised his. "To Sarah and her bravery," he said, meeting her eyes. "And also for giving my mother something to speculate about for at least another two months, which hopefully allows the rest of us to avoid being sucked up into the Christmas whirlwind. To Sarah," he said, sipping the cold bubbly.

"This is jolly good," Bill smiled happily, adjusting his reading glasses and peering at the label. "Damn good, in fact. To brave Sarah."

"To our dear Sarah," Lillian smiled warmly, trying the chilled wine. "Oh yes. Quite lovely, in fact."

Sarah swallowed past a suddenly tight throat. No matter how much of a presumptive pain in the arse he was, there was something unexpectedly kind about Mycroft Holmes and it felt ... strange.

"I've decided to accept your generous offer to have me stay until Christmas," she felt the need to say something. "If you're sure I won't be imposing or be in the way," she added hastily as both Lillian and Bill looked at her delightedly. "It's just so different down here. I don't feel as if there are all sorts of rules I should be following; it's much more relaxed."

"My dear child, of _course_ you must stay," Lillian stretched out her hand along the table to rest it over the younger woman's. "Of course you must," she repeated, her fingers squeezing gently. "Bill and I are thrilled you want to."

"Though I have to return to London in a couple of days for my next scan, and if I'm going to be staying down here until Christmas, then there's a few things I need to organise first. I also need to get more clothes and stuff."

"I can certainly orchestrate your temporary return to London," Mycroft nodded, taking up his knife and fork and cutting into the fragrant pastry on his plate. Everything steamed and fell apart, exactly as it should. He sampled a forkful. Tender, delicate and light. He smiled. "Mummy was quite right," he said, sipping champagne. "You could indeed write about food," he added. "You certainly seem to know how it ought to be."

"Ah, but that's my pastry," Sarah felt the need to be honest. "Ask me to make you a cake, you'll end up with a frisbee," she looked unabashed. "Chocolate frisbees a speciality. I simply can't make sponges or anything fluffy."

"Neither can I," Lillian stage-whispered. "Bill's the cake-maker in this house. I'm better with old fashioned things like casseroles and puddings."

"Illustrating once more the male superiority in the kitchen," Mycroft lifted his glass airily. "Hence the vast number of male chefs."

Holding her own glass loosely, Sarah gave him a narrow-eyed stare. "Name six male chefs you know personally," she said. "And I'll believe you."

Holding his glass more thoughtfully between index finger and thumb, Mycroft leaned his elbows on the table, facing her. "I don't know six chefs, male or otherwise," he admitted eventually, squinting one eye closed, amused.

"Then your evidence is anecdotal rather than empirical," Sarah looked arch. "Which means you're talking through your ..." she paused, aware that both Holmes parents were keen listeners. "Fundament," she finished her glass of fizzy with a flourish. "How do you like my pastry?"

"It's delicious," he took another mouthful. "Really, very good."

"Empirical evidence then, that you know at least two females who can cook and only one male," she said, looking between Lillian and Bill. "Ergo, your argument of demonstrated male superiority in the kitchen is both unsubstantiated and provocative." She raised her glass in salute.

He smiled at her slowly, nodding as he rose to fetch several clean glasses and a recently decanted bottle of Bordeaux, the rich, dense fragrance filling the room as he poured it out. Lillian shook her head, but Bill accepted a glass. Without asking, he emptied the remainder of the champagne into Sarah's flute.

Bill and Lillian exchanged a silent glance.

"That was superb," Lillian finished her pasty and sat back. "You are henceforth our official pastry cook," she added, smiling in Sarah's direction. "Who wants some of Mykie's favourite dessert?"

"Steamed ginger pudding with chocolate-toffee sauce?" Mycroft looked askance as his glass of red wine. "Then I'm drinking the wrong kind of alcohol."

"I'll try some," Sarah sat back, patting her tummy. "I seem to be eternally hungry out in the country and I never was in town."

"That's what good, clean air will do for you," Bill stood, clearing the empty plates. "There's an opened bottle of Speyburn in the cabinet," he nodded at his son. "If the wine's too dry, then something altogether sweeter might do you."

"A good idea." Pushing his glass to one side, Mycroft investigated the kitchen drinks cupboard, locating the newly opened bottle of single malt. Uncorking it, he sniffed the warming scent of honey and spice and toffee. An _excellent_ idea.

"If that's Daddy's malt, I'll have a dram too," Lillian placed a large serving plate in the middle of the table bearing a steamed pudding exuding the seductive bouquet of ginger. She also deposited a large sauceboat of gooey chocolatey sauce.

"Actually, I daren't try any," Sarah looked askance at the dessert. "I won't be able to stop eating it."

"Then I'll serve everyone else first and you can decide how you feel," Lillian smiled, pleased at the pudding's reception.

Sarah smiled inwardly. What she felt was _family_.

"I never asked Mykie; are you staying tonight? It's going to be late for you and Jack to go back up to town tonight," Lillian sounded curious.

"I drove down myself and I have no intention of going anywhere after this much to drink," he said pouring himself a second small malt. "I thought it would be convenient to take the downstairs guest room for tonight."

"And then you can drive Sarah back up to town for her medical appointment, what a good idea," Lillian poured sauce on the small piece of ginger pudding Sarah had elected to attempt.

"And I can drive myself back down," Sarah pushed her empty plate away and held her belly again as the baby kicked yet again, the movement clearly visible beneath the shape-hugging jumper.. "I don't know what's got into it today," she made a face. "Are any of your relations members of the gazelle family?"

Smiling, Lillian squeezed Sarah's hand. "It's a boy," she sounded smug.

Glancing across at Mycroft, Sarah was surprised at the expression on his face. Part bemused, part hungry. There was another visible kick and his eyes widened fractionally.

 _It wasn't only Bill and Lillian who were looking forward to her child._

"Here," Sarah beckoned him. "Quickly."

Standing, Mycroft moved around the table to her side where he paused, awkwardly. Taking his hand, she laid the palm flat against her belly right above where the last kick had happened. In the next instant, there was another movement and Sarah could tell he had felt it quite distinctly as his fingers tensed beneath hers.

"Footballer or gazelle?" she asked.

"Possibly high-jumper?" Mycroft removed his hand hesitantly, his voice mild. "When do you need to be in London?"

"In two days, but if I go up tomorrow, I can arrange all the things I need before I come back down."

"Then I'll drive you up tomorrow afternoon," Mycroft returned to his seat, a thoughtful look on his face.


	9. Nine

It is always a little strange to see the inside of a dwelling when one has only ever previously seen a floorplan printout. Mycroft followed Sarah as they walked up the wide, slate-tiled stairway to her first-floor apartment which spanned the entirety of the building's footprint.

There was a large and solid front door on a roomy landing. The tiled floor was spotless and the mahogany stair rails gleamed; there was ... he sniffed ... a faint smell of lemon wood polish.

"The body corporate is very good here," Sarah watched the expression on his face as she dug around in her bag for keys. "Their fees are relatively reasonable, but they manage to keep the entire building and its services in top-notch condition," she said. "It was one of the things that persuaded me to buy."

The body corporate of the building had already been vetted and found acceptable. However, Mycroft felt the door could use a significant level of additional security. How anyone could imagine a single deadlock was acceptable these days was beyond him.

Raising his eyebrows, but remaining silent, he waited until the door was opened and Sarah preceded him into the flat. Having seen the structural plan some time before, Mycroft knew that the flat was large, with four decent-sized rooms either side of a central passageway, but it was an intellectual knowledge rather than a personal familiarity. The reality was very different from the floorplan, though he felt it politic to keep that snippet of information to himself.

There was a smallish vestibule with the original polished wooden boards gleaming beneath a rich-coloured rug. On the left side of the small room was a tallboy dresser topped with a rather lovely imperial yellow Chinese vase. On the opposite side, taking up most of the free wall, was an enormous modern oil painting of London. An impressionist work of some skill, there was a feeling of castles and red buses and tall buildings. The Thames wound through the entire scene. It was a striking piece of art and certainly made a statement.

Still silent, Mycroft followed Sarah down the straight central hallway and deeper into the apartment; gleaming floorboards framing a long carpet runner of a similar pattern and hue to that in the entryway. A tall, high window at the very far end of the passage allowed light to flood the space. There was also a veritable runway of LED ceiling lights the entire length of the hall which illuminated without glare. This was important, since the gallery of framed photographs that absolutely covered both long walls required light without dazzle. The photos were sufficiently dazzling all by themselves. Mostly black-and-white eight-by-tens, Mycroft estimated there had to be at least two-hundred or more images of cities and scenes of interest from all over the world. At a single glance, he recognised several European cities; Bonn, Zagreb, Oslo, as well as the cave temple at Petra, Chittorgarh Fort in India, the Giant's Causeway in Ireland and Santorini in Greece. He raised an interested eyebrow; given Sarah's proclivity for communication, he would have expected to see photographs of people, but every single one of these images was of a place, rather than of a place with _people_.

Sarah took a left turn through a wide archway. " _In here_ ," she called.

Recalling the floorplan he'd seen some weeks previously, Mycroft knew this to be a very long, open plan room stretching right from the front of the house. The main living area faced onto the street, and then there was a formal dining area. A wide kitchen and casual meals area were towards the rear. He was mildly surprised therefore, as he stepped into the airy space. The very far end of the room to his left, facing the front of the house, seemed to blaze with sunshine. The lounge area itself was awash with natural tones and fabrics; pale linen covered sofas; wide padded armchairs in greens and browns; light fabric panels on the walls and big earth-toned cushions on the polished floorboards. There were also several large and verdant plants; _ficus_ and tall, soft-leaved yucca.

The dining area most immediately to his left was slightly less bohemian, with an elegant, flame-mahogany formal dining table and seating that would accommodate up to ... he counted ... ten. There was a long sideboard against the far wall of the room in the same wood which carried ... he blinked ... an unusually complete collection of silver Art Deco tableware. The two large Georg Jensen candelabra were rather spectacular. Sarah was clearly unaware of the necessary level of security such a dwelling as hers required. He made a mental note to advise her ... to _discuss_ it with her at the earliest reasonable opportunity.

Turning his head to the right, he observed his host standing in the middle of a large and modern kitchen, with a moderately-sized round table and comfortable wooden chairs in the centre of the square of a quadrangle of cabinets and heavy oiled-wood benchtops. There appeared to be ample space and light throughout, and the French doors beyond the kitchen brought an astonishing amount of daylight inside. There seemed to be a sun-terrace at the very far right; the wide French doors opened out onto a broad and private balcony.

There was the sound of a kettle being filled and china being pulled from a cupboard.

"The milk's still good," Sarah sniffed the container she'd just taken from the fridge. "How do you like your tea?"

"No sugar, thank you," he nodded absently as his eyes wandered around the elongated space again, from the windows and green plants at the far front of the house, back to the glassed-in terrace the other side of the kitchen. It was not an unpleasant effect. Bright and airy, with clean lines and a sense of freshness throughout.

"Here," Sarah handed him a bone china mug. "And stop looking like a burglar casing the joint," she said. "It makes you squint."

"It does not make me squint," he said, frowning lightly.

"I notice you don't deny the accusation of burglar though," she laughed. "You are so predictable."

"I am not ..." Mycroft stopped himself. Perhaps he _was_ predictable in some ways. Perhaps it was something of which he should take note. If a relative stranger felt she could predict his behaviour, then so might other, less well intentioned individuals. "Analysing points of security weakness is a responsibility with which I am invariably tasked," he said, tasting his tea. It was pleasantly light and delicate, not unlike the room in which he stood. "I did not mean to bore you with my behaviour."

"Oddly," Sarah came to stand beside him. " _Boring_ is not one of the adjectives I'd use to describe you," she said. "There are other, far more productive terms."

"Such as?" Mycroft turned to meet her eyes, but she'd already moved away.

"Want to see the rest of the flat?" Sarah stood in the entry way of the long room. "There's not much else to see, but I can tell you won't sleep tonight unless you have all the information you mind needs to churn out whatever it is it churns out in the small hours."

"My mind does _not_ churn," Mycroft found himself responding with a hint of acid, even as he saw the smile curve her mouth as Sarah turned away. His eyebrows lifted again as his mouth pursed of its own accord. He inhaled slowly.

Still cradling the mug of hot tea, he followed her back into the long central passageway of photographs.

"This side," Sarah pointed to several semi-closed doors along the opposite wall. "Has all the bedrooms, the bathrooms and my office. Nothing terribly interesting but plenty of safe space for a small child."

There had been a door leading off from the kitchen into a room that sat at the end of the passageway. There was a second entry beneath the high window that illuminated the hall.

"Laundry in there," Sarah nodded at the small, closed off room. "It leads out to the fire escape." A few steps later, she patted a second door. "General bathroom in there," she added, pointed to an adjacent closed door. "Spare bedroom next to that; I'll probably be using that one for the baby once it's old enough to sleep in a room alone," she walked back down the passage towards another door. "My bedroom and ensuite," she said, tapping the door with a finger. She did not offer to show him inside.

According to the plan he'd seen, the master suite was at the front of the house, overlooking the Lonsdale Square gardens, not in the middle of two other rooms. Mycroft felt momentarily puzzled until Sarah pushed open the door to what should have been her bedroom to display a very large office containing no less than three desks, each with one or two large computer monitors, arranged in a squarish horseshoe.

Once he saw the single wheeled chair in the centre of the desked area, the arrangement was obvious. Of course; an effective workspace for a self-employed writer. Packed bookshelves and storage boxes filled with manuscripts and assorted writing paraphernalia covered the walls of the room. The long windows had the same curtaining as did their compatriots in the lounge. There were several business-like printers and scanners sitting on a wide shelf.

"The desk nearest the windows is my proofing and reading space," Sarah waved an encompassing hand. "There's really good light from the south-facing windows and there's a lamppost outside the house, so even at night I can get some pretty good additional illumination in here if I want it," she added, pointing to the desk in the centre. "My admin and general work happens here," she said. "I like to keep things clear and separate so I don't miss anything important," she smiled a little. "When you have a dozen different contracts on the go, it's all too easy to let deadlines slide, and that's one thing I learned very early on not to do."

"And this final space?" Mycroft ran fingertips across the third empty and almost pristine desktop. Anyone sitting here would be facing a blank wall. _Why_ , he wondered.

"I sit here to write," Sarah smoothed her hand across the desk's clean surface. "I want no interruptions, no distractions, nothing that takes me from what I need to do. Everything's in my head or I put it up there," she pointed to a blank space on the wall in front of the desk which Mycroft realised was actually a large section of corkboard painted the same colour as the wall itself. "Photos, artwork, flowers; things I've brought back with me from wherever it is I've been. Anything really, if it helps me focus on what I need to write," she lifted both hands and encompassed the room with a broad gesture. "And this is where it all comes together," she shrugged. "It's a method that's worked for me for years."

"And what will you do with the child while you work?" Mycroft was still assessing the room for danger points; power sockets, trailing cables; sharp corners and things that might fall onto small fingers.

"I'll have a cot in here if needs be," she said, assessing the remaining space in the office. "The sound of typing on a keyboard is very soporific, you know."

"Won't a crying baby interfere with your work?" Mycroft was curious.

"You assume I'll have a crying baby?" Sarah shook her head, smiling. "There's no point inviting trouble, Mycroft. I'll deal with whatever happens if and when it happens."

"What time is your appointment tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject. "And how soon after that do you plan on returning to Kent?"

"My scan appointment is in the early afternoon, so I'll go and hire a car in the morning, have the scan, then come back here to collect my gear. I should be back at your parent's house well before dinner, though I'd like to be able to do a little shopping before I return; there are several things I'd like to take down with me."

Frowning again, Mycroft looked uncomfortable. "I do wish ..." he began.

"What?" Sarah sounded wary. "You do wish what?"

"That you'd let me organise a car for you," he said, meeting her eyes. "If you insist on driving yourself, _which_ ..." he held up a hand as she was about to interrupt "... which I know you will," he said. "Then I'd feel very much better if you'd let me arrange a car for you that's been checked out by experts whom I know will ensure it's a safe ride. There are too many accidents with hire-cars and I could not bear ... none of us could tolerate the idea of you having an accident."

Sarah wasn't overly keen on the idea of an accident either. Was Mycroft being excessively controlling again, or was he genuinely concerned? If they both wanted the same thing, did it really matter?

"What kind of car could you get me?"

"What kind would you like?" Mycroft sounded vaguely hopeful.

"Something not too big," Sarah screwed an eye shut as she thought. "A hatchback would be handy for carrying stuff. Nothing overly fancy. Something reliable and easy to change a tyre on if I needed to do it myself."

The notion that she would even consider changing her own tyres had Mycroft clamping his jaw tight shut. He would ensure her car was covered by both the RAC _and_ the AA. He would also have a spare phone left in the glove compartment with preloaded emergency numbers, as well as a new GPS system; handy for all manner of reasons.

"I'm confident I can arrange something along those lines for you," he nodded supressing all his other comments. "I'll have one of my people park the car in front of this house tomorrow morning and have the keys and registration details left for you in your mail box, if that would suit?"

It would suit fine, Sarah realised. It also meant she had a little extra time to play with. "I'll insist on paying all the costs, of course," she pursed her mouth, but if it'll stop ... people worrying about my driving, then I suppose it's not a real problem. Have you spoken with Anni Mandal yet? If she's still in your pocket then I'll ask for another obstetrician," she sounded briefly fierce.

"Doctor Mandal has been fully briefed that the minor ... security issue to do with your recent work in Russia was in fact in error and that there is no further requirement for her to consider you anything other than a conventional patient," Mycroft examined the handle of the umbrella with a certain intensity. "Doctor Mandal was rather vociferous in her defence of you and I was forced to endure a certain amount of her wrath," he sighed, frowning but philosophic. "I know you consider my methods to be morally indefensible, but they have served me well in my job," he said, lifting his eyes back to hers. "You may not like what I do, but I will keep you safe despite yourself," he added, straightening his back stoically.

There seemed little point arguing, Sarah realised. What could she even say? She knew he was just worried about the child and she could hardly fault him for that. Sighing, she nodded. "Yes, the baby _will_ be kept safe. I respect your concern."

By the shifting expression on his face, she saw it wasn't the response he'd been expecting, but Mycroft said nothing, turning instead to leave the office and head back towards the main front entrance.

"I'm not sure when I'll be returning to Kent myself," he paused and turned, just inside the door. "You have my number and that of Anthea; you must feel free to contact either of us if there is the slightest need to do so. Other than that, I'm positive both my parents will be only too delighted to provide for your every want," he added.

His leaving like this left Sarah with an oddly uncomfortable sensation, almost as if she'd started to become accustomed to having him nearby, even if only as a sparring partner. It would feel strange to be by herself again. Blinking, Sarah took a breath and smiled.

"Thanks for driving me up here then," she said. "And for offering to organise a car. I'll be back down in Eynsford by tomorrow night ..."

Mycroft nodded and turned back to the door, his hand already on the handle.

"There was one other thing I was going to say," Sarah felt compelled to tell him before he disappeared. There could be no half-truths between them now.

"Yes?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"I was going to ask them to tell me the sex of the baby when I have the scan tomorrow," she said. "I've been putting it off, although I'm not really sure why and now there seems to be even less of a reason," she added. "Would you like me to tell you, once I know?"

"My mother's convinced it's a boy," his sudden smile was curiously artless.

"It might be a boy," Sarah tilted her head.

"Or a girl," the corner of his mouth curved a little higher.

"Or a girl," she agreed. "Does it matter which?"

"To me?" Mycroft looked surprised that she would ask such a thing. "Not in the slightest," he paused. "Do you have a preference?"

"The baby's gender is the least of it," Sarah smiled herself, feeling better now for some reason. "I just want someone I can raise to be happy and brave and kind and who isn't frightened of trying new things," she shrugged, wrinkling her nose self-consciously. "It's all a bit clichéd, really, isn't it?"

His eyes held hers for a long moment. "Not in the least clichéd," the smile reached his eyes. "I'm confident you'll achieve whatever you aim for," he said, pulling out the silver watch he kept tucked into the fob pocket of his waistcoat. "I must go," he opened the front door. "Please do take great care," he said. "You have an entire family thinking about you now," his smile returned for a moment. "I'll see myself out."

The door closed behind him and he was gone.

###

Sleeping in her own bed in her own room was pleasant, though she found she missed the concave dip in the mattress in Mycroft's old room which supported her burgeoning belly so well. She'd had to arrange a slim pillow either side of her so that when she turned over in the night, she hadn't felt uncomfortable. She might only have been down in Kent for a few days, but Sarah was prepared to swear the baby's growth was visible. There was also a certain element of additional weight she'd noticed climbing up the steps to her flat yesterday afternoon.

However, the Holmes' farmhouse was mostly on the flat, with only a tiny stone staircase to negotiate. If she got too heavy, Sarah was sure she could transfer downstairs to the guest room without much fuss.

Spending the previous evening packing her bags, Sarah had decided to take several smaller, manageable ones rather than her larger suitcases; she wasn't sure she could lift the bigger ones in her current state, nor that it would be wise to even try. She smiled when she remembered Mycroft relieving her of the flour jar in Lillian's pantry. Whatever his motivation, he was genuinely thoughtful when he wanted to be. She wondered when she'd see him again.

There were a few things she wanted to get to take down to Kent with her. A book of her favourite sweet recipes for Bill and a very swanky tweed gilet she'd seen in Liberty for Lillian. There were also a number of her favourite toiletries and bits and pieces she decided she might as well get for a treat; she probably wouldn't be getting pregnant again, so she might as well enjoy the whole event as far as she could and a little pampering never went amiss. She also wanted to buy herself a proper pair of wellies and go mad at Charbonnel; her taste for crystallised ginger had been awakened. Her scan appointment wasn't until two o'clock, so she should easily get all the things she wanted, although it would mean going a little mad on cabs, but so what?

Debarking from the big London taxi that made life easier for increasingly large pregnant ladies, Sarah thanked the driver as he handed her all her bags and she stood on the pavement outside her flat.

Outside the flat where a very swish new Mazda hatch was parked, its bright blue paintwork gleaming in the faint morning sun. It carried the very latest plates and, peering inside; she could see all manner of gadgets on the dash. There were several wrapped packages in the back already and Sarah shook her head, wondering what Mycroft had felt it was critical she have before she headed down to Kent.

Heading slowly up the stairs to her apartment, Sarah dumped her bags in the kitchen wondering what to do first. There was well over an hour before her appointment and while there were a number of small tasks for her to do before she headed down to Eynsford, she had several options. But what she really wanted to do was to grab the car keys and take the little car out for a quick test-drive ... even a couple of times around the square would be good enough.

Walking slowly back downstairs, Sarah opened her private mail box to find several assorted envelopes and a big fat lumpy one. Sticking the other mail into her coat pocket, she tore open the top of the heavy A4 packet, taking in the insurance papers, RAC membership, registration ... she raised her eyebrows. The car was brand new; no previous ownership ... wait ... _ownership?_

Swiftly checking back through the registration and insurance information details, Sarah realised that _Mycroft had_ _given her a car_. Not just a temporary rental job for the next couple of months, but an actual car. The pretty blue Mazda outside had been registered in her name and with her address as the _owner_. She frowned. This was not what she had expected at all.

 _Bloody_ Mycroft.

However, she could always give it back, she thought. It might even be cheaper to buy a small car and then resell it than to hire one for extended use; she was sure this wasn't the kind of thing Mycroft would have organised without being completely aware of what he was doing. Sarah shrugged. Just because he'd made her the owner of the thing didn't mean she had to _keep_ being the owner. Once she was back in London after the child had been born, there would probably be no need for her to have a car; she'd managed perfectly well without one up until now. In which case, there really was nothing stopping her going for a short joyride before she did anything else.

Beeping the car unlocked, she opened the driver's door and carefully got herself into the driver's seat. Several things were immediately apparent.

First of all, he'd got her an automatic, which meant she couldn't floor it down the A20. The car probably had a cruise control already set to about thirty miles per hour, Sarah smiled despite herself. Mycroft was such an old killjoy.

The driver's seat had been pushed well back which was fine as her long legs were easily able to reach the pedals. She checked out all the fancy controls on the dash as well as the new Garmin sat nav located to the far right of the front windscreen. Everything else was fairly standard, though she wouldn't know how the little car handled until she actually took it for a spin. In her travels, Sarah had driven everything from a pre-war _Deux Chevaux_ on a short-cut across a big and lumpy field outside of Toulon to a Bentley Continental through a car wash in Johannesburg. She'd wrangled a huge medical aid truck with caterpillar tracks in a dust storm in northern Africa and spent a long weekend getting thoroughly stuck in Norfolk in a baby Fiat. There had been ancient Landrovers, jeeps and even, on one memorable night on a long road outside Savannah in Georgia, a loud, ex-police Harley Road King. Thus, a small Mazda hatch was not exactly a big deal, but Sarah kept thinking about her name being written in the section as _Owner_. There was no two ways about it; she was going to have to drive the thing with a little more care than she might have done in a basic rental.

 _Bloody_ Mycroft.

But all she had to do now was finish the last bits of packing, bring the bags down to the car, head to Milford House for the scan and then she could aim for Kent. There seemed little point returning to the flat merely to collect her luggage, so she may as well finalise the packing and head to Marylebone.

Ending up with half-a-dozen medium-sized holdalls as well as bags of shopping, Sarah gave the Mazda its first test. Would it take all her stuff? She was planning on being away from home for two months, even though she'd be driving up to town on occasion for medical checks and to water her plants. She had no plans of bringing her entire wardrobe down to Kent with her, so she would have to live on whatever she packed. Wedging the last of the bags into the rear of the car, she smiled. If she ever decided to give up travelling, she could probably write reviews on transport usability; she'd tried just about every form of it there was.

Finally, and with the assistance of one of her neighbours, she was done. Her flat was once again locked up. The Mazda was quite literally packed. She had forty minutes to make a twenty-minute drive, park and arrival at the clinic. Getting herself comfortable in the driver's seat, checking to see if the sat nav was properly set up, she started the little car up and pulled away from the kerb.

The car moved silently and sweetly and Sarah was reminded of an old mare she'd ridden several years ago in Mexico. The old horse was so gentle and so used to dealing with inexperienced riders that she would move with the barest touch, her flowing lope feeling more like riding a long escalator than riding a horse. The Mazda was a lovely machine and she silently thanked Mycroft for his excellent taste in cars. She wondered what his Jag would be like to take for a spin up the M1 to Scotland. A car like that would need a good long run to get everything warmed up and smoothed out. Perhaps she might be able to persuade him the next time he came down to Kent. A drive down to Southampton might be fun. It was a thought.

The drive to Milford House took even less time than she had anticipated; clearly local traffic had abated just for her. She smiled. This was surely a good omen for her trip down to Eynsford. Finding a miraculously convenient parking space almost directly outside the clinics main doors, Sarah eased herself out of the car, grabbed her bag and headed inside. Taking the lift to the second floor, Sarah walked into the tastefully decorated obstetrics practice, only to stop dead in her tracks.

Mycroft Holmes stood as she came in, sliding his phone into an inner jacket pocket. The smile on his face was mild, contemplative, even.

Unsure if he thought she had expected him to be here, Sarah was briefly confused, running their last conversation back through her memory. No; there had definitely been no such arrangement made. Then why was he here?

"I was in the area," he said simply, as if reading her mind. "It occurred to me that several birds might be dealt with by one stone, as it were," his smile hadn't wavered. "You can brief me on the acceptability of the car and I can answer any remaining queries you might have before you head down to the farmhouse and I'll also be here to have the results of your ... of the medical procedure, immediately," he added, looking remarkably placid.

"And you were just in the area?" Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Even though the Home Office is right down by Millbank?"

"I am often required to attend meetings at various locales," his bland expression hadn't changed.

The opaque glass doors opened from the main consulting rooms and Anni Mandal came out to greet her patient, stopping as she saw Sarah was in a conversation.

"Hi Anni," Sarah walked towards her obstetrician. "This is ..." she hesitated as she raised her hand towards Mycroft. How should she introduce him? How did he want to be known? Did he even want to have any connection to this side of the situation?"

"Good afternoon," Mycroft stepped forward, lifting his right hand towards the medical specialist. "My name is Mycroft Holmes and I'm the father of Sarah's child." They shook hands.

 _Well. That answered that_.

Turning to Sarah with a confused expression, Doctor Mandal waved a raised finger between them. "Didn't you go to University Hospital to have the ..?"

"Very long story," Sarah nodded and sighed. "You have no idea how complicated things have become since our last meeting."

Doctor Mandal's mind paused on the man's name. "Mycroft Holmes," she mulled the words. "Weren't you the one who spoke to me on the phone about ..." she turned to look back at Sarah, her eyebrows reaching for her hairline. Her mouth flattened. "What is going on here?" she demanded quietly.

"Nothing untoward, I assure you, Doctor Mandal," Mycroft's words were smooth and polished, as if reassuring a confused and moderately vexed medical practitioner was something he did every day of the week. "A minor confusion that has been entirely resolved for all concerned parties. You have already had my apology."

"Yes, I have, hadn't I?" the Indian woman's dark eyes rested assessingly on the man before flicking towards her patient. "And you are entirely happy to have Mr Holmes here?" she asked Sarah. "I can have him removed if you wish."

The thought of anyone attempting to have Mycroft removed from where he wanted to be was an interesting one and Sarah couldn't help the half-smile that curved the side of her mouth. "He can stay," she said. "There was some earlier confusion which has all been cleared up," she added, turning to meet his eyes. There was a flicker of amusement in them. "Everything's sorted now."

Sarah's tone seemed to placate her obstetrician who sniffed and blinked. "Then would you both care to come through?" she said as she walked back towards the glass doors. "This shouldn't take very long at all."

The seats in Doctor Mandal's office were wide and comfortable. Sarah answered all the questions Anni had to ask – basic general health questions about sleeping and eating and exercise. The doctor seemed pleased that Sarah was going to be staying with people for a while, noting there had already been some positive effects.

Once Sarah's weight and other measurements had been taken, Anni stood with a smile. "This way, Sarah," she smiled, gesturing towards a side door. "I'll just get you ready for your scan."

Standing, Sarah turned to look at Mycroft who had sat silently throughout the consultation. She hadn't really expected him to come in with her, but once he had, it seemed silly to ask him to leave. He probably already knew more about her than she did herself. But would he be interested in the scan itself? It was already very clear he was more interested in the baby's welfare that he was comfortable in admitting.

"Would you like to see ..?" she lifted a hand towards the radiology room beyond. "It's not a terribly glamourous event, but as I was planning to get a print out of the scan for you in any case ..."

Rising to his feet, Mycroft stared at Sarah's face as if trying to work out if there were an ulterior motive at play. Seeing that she was being perfectly sincere, he nodded economically, leaving his coat and umbrella as he followed the women through into the smaller scanning room.

Familiar with the procedure by now, Sarah walked behind the screen in the corner where she swiftly changed into a long loose gown which opened across the front but kept everything else covered and warm. Climbing up onto the high bed, she made herself comfortable as the obstetrician readied the equipment.

"Ever seen a scan of your child before, Mr Holmes?" Doctor Mandal was well-versed in the silences of men in these rooms. This was definitely a place of women and sometimes, some men felt alienated and uneasy.

"This will be a new experience for both of us," Mycroft stood at the head of the bead, staring at the as yet still blank scanner display. He seemed relaxed and yet the obstetrician was sure she could detect an underlying tension. Perhaps it was simply that he disliked medical procedures; some people never could get used to them.

"I've decided I'd like to know the sex of the baby now, please," Sarah rested her head on a soft pillow. "It's something I think Mycroft would be interested in knowing too."

"Of course," Anni Mandal smiled. "It's very hard to resist such knowledge when you know it's there for the having ... here we go," she added, spreading a good layer of clear warmed gel across Sarah's swollen abdomen.

Mycroft remained where he was, tilting his head to see the monitor more clearly.

"You can't see very well from there," Sarah tugged the sleeve of his suit jacket. "You can come a little closer if you like; you aren't going to be in the way."

Nodding, he took two small steps forward until he stood level with her shoulder. The dark imagery of the monitor suddenly coming clear as a small, pale shape, recognisably that of a baby, sharpened into focus.

"Well now," Doctor Mandal murmured, almost to herself. "Let's see what there is to see, shall we?" Flattening the scanning wand and moving it backwards and forwards in a very specific area, she turned to see that the image was clearly displayed on the screen. The baby's details suddenly became almost shockingly clear. The tiny fingers and toes, the shape of the face, the closed eyelids. Everything was visible.

Doctor Mandal smiled again. "Congratulations," she said, including both Sarah and Mycroft in her glance. "You're going to have a son."


	10. Ten

Though her eyes were centred on the small monitor, Sarah could not help but feel a sudden crushingly hard squeeze of her shoulder; a grip pressured to the point of pain. Exclaiming softly, she turned to see Mycroft's hand grasping her upper arm so hard his knuckles were bone-white.

"Mycroft," she brushed his fingers with her own. "That hurts."

"Apologies," he murmured, instantly releasing his hold, his attention still entirely focused on the flickering screen. The dark background filled with an inverted V of light within which a pale and unmistakable shape flexed and wriggled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Doctor Mandal shook her head as she realised her oversight. "I forgot to turn the sound on; here you are."

Instantly, a soft, fast thudding filled the air around them, a double-echoed drumbeat of raindrops.

"I've never heard him so clearly before," Sarah had never heard so loud a heartbeat; the other scans had been more about foetal development ... but _this_ time ...

"He's a fine, big boy," Anna Mandal smiled as she moved the wand to show the baby's face more clearly. It was still a little blurry in places, but the overall clarity was astonishing. "He has very long legs ... see?" she moved the wand to focus on the curled-up legs and feet which did look long in relation to the rest of the torso.

 _Might be a high-jumper with those legs ..._

"Given the measurements and the consistency of development, I'd say you're between twenty-eight and twenty-nine weeks; the expected delivery date of December thirty-first is looking very good. I think you'll only need one more scan and Doppler study in about six weeks, just to make absolutely sure everything's exactly where it's expected to be. Unless there's a problem, we'll simply assess growth by measurement from now on."

On the monitor, the baby stretched, opening and closing his hands. There was a simultaneous movement immediately beneath Sarah's skin. She laughed, delightedly.

"You are able to download a print from this scan?" Mycroft's voice was fractionally husky and he seemed tense. He cleared his throat in a business-like manner.

"Oh, I think we can do a little better than that," the obstetrician smiled. "This scan has been recorded from the beginning. I can have it downloaded to a DVD before you leave."

Nodding, Mycroft inhaled slowly. "Not an experience I had ever thought to have," he turned back to meet Sarah's eyes as she lay on the high bed beside him. "Quite extraordinary, in fact."

 _I'm going to have a son_ , Sarah mused to herself as she took the handfuls of wipes that Doctor Mandal handed her and removed the worst excesses of the gel as she sat up. "To be honest, I always thought I was going to have a girl, but there we are," she smiled brilliantly. "And he'll be here in a couple of months' time," she smiled again, sliding off the bed. "It seems unbelievable."

"You realise my mother will be insufferably smug about the entire thing?" Mycroft helped Sarah find her balance. "Neither of us will ever be able to win an argument with her in the future about anything."

"And you are happy it's a boy?" not concerned in the least about Lillian, she watched his face carefully, the memory of those clenched and whitened knuckles still sharp and vaguely unsettling.

Mycroft breathed deep and blinked slowly, lifting a fine strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind an ear. The expression on his face was not one Sarah could recall seeing before. The tall man looked mid-way between stupefaction and triumph.

"I thought it would be more of an intellectual experience," he said, a touch breathlessly. "I imagined I'd see an image on a screen ... but the reality ..." he looked down and shook his head a little. "That I have been party in some small way to the creation of a completely unique new human being ..." he sighed, meeting her eyes again and smiled ruefully. "I may be over-reacting somewhat."

Sarah watched his eyes. _You're going to be a daddy ... nothing's an overreaction_. "Would you like to have a cup of tea?" she patted his hand understandingly. "Just let me get dressed; there's no rush for me to head down to Eynsford right away."

Mycroft paused, thinking. "There's a small café not far from here that serves a proper afternoon tea," he said, pulling his phone from his jacket. "Shall I reserve a table?"

Wondering what kind of café required booking a table, Sarah nodded, ducking in behind the curtain to clean her skin more thoroughly and put her clothes back on.

Both their cars were outside, but Mycroft suggested she leave the Mazda where it was, and he would return her to collect it after they'd had some tea, at which point she could head immediately down to Lambeth Bridge and thence across the river to the A2. If the traffic wasn't too horrendous, she'd be back at the Kent farmhouse in just over the hour, so there really was no rush. Agreeing, Sarah made sure she wasn't parked in a metered zone, then saw she was in a resident's only area.

"Not to worry," Mycroft spoke to his driver who immediately handed out a small square card emblazoned with the lion and unicorn crest of Her Royal Majesty's Government. "Just pop this on top of your dashboard and none of the authorities would dream of looking twice," he smiled meaningfully. "It won't be for very long, in any case."

Seeing there were a number of other spaces in the same area and expecting they'd be no more than a half-hour or so, Sarah acquiesced. She quite fancied a cup of tea herself, truth be told.

Inside the plush interior of the Jaguar, Mycroft extracted a thin plastic package from his breast pocket containing a single silvery disk. He held it up between finger and thumb.

"Are you sure you don't mind me taking this?" he asked. "I can have a copy made while we have tea and return the original to you immediately."

"Mycroft," Sarah smiled at his new-found deference. "I've had several scans and I really don't need to see the recorded highlights," she took the disk from him and tucked it back into his pocket. "Keep this one for as long as you want."

The car had exited Harley Street, turning left into Wigmore Street, but it was a matter of seconds only before it turned left once more, into the top part of Regent's Street and Langham Place.

"Some café if it's around here," Sarah muttered, pausing as the car pulled into the majestic stone portico which announced to the worldly visitor that they had arrived at The Langham Hotel.

"The Palm Court offers a rather splendid afternoon tea," Mycroft smiled as he helped her from the car. It was only as they were walking through the brilliantly polished brass-handled doors that Sarah realised he'd tucked her hand into his elbow. But the expression on his face was so uncharacteristically carefree and light, she didn't have the heart to bring reality into the equation and pop his balloon.

Escorting her up a small flight of Carrera marble steps through the Lobby and beyond into the large and immensely plush tea-room, the Head waiter leaned forward to hear Mycroft's murmured words, before showing them directly to a very pleasant and secluded table. While there were already signs in the city beyond that Christmas was a matter of weeks away, inside the hotel, there was an ageless elegance, with demure, tasteful shades of cream and taupe.

"I've never been in this hotel, though I've been to a number of others in the chain," Sarah smiled as the waiter pulled out a wide leather armchair for her. "The Asian Langhams are particularly attractive, and I think I stayed in the Boston one, last time I was in Massachusetts."

Ordering the standard afternoon tea, Mycroft leaned back in his comfortable chair and looked at her face. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Uncertain why he'd ask such a question, Sarah gave him a puzzled smile. "I'm perfectly fine," she said. "How about you?"

"I feel ..." Mycroft stared up at the ornate ceiling. "Ever so slightly giddy, actually," he inhaled slowly and lifted his eyebrows, rubbing his temple with the ball of his thumb. "Everything feels a little sluggish and hyper-real. Shock, I'd say."

Frowning now, Sarah wondered what on earth they were doing having tea if he felt unwell. "Do you need to go home and lie down? We don't have to be here if you're feeling funny," she made as if to stand.

"Sit, sit," Mycroft waved her back down. "Tea and food will help," he brought the hand across his face. "Clearly the experience was more affecting than I had first thought."

 _Well, it was the first time he'd seen a scan of the baby._ Sarah remembered her first scan. She smiled. "I think you'll live."

"Are you going to tell Mummy it's a boy?"

The waiter arrived with two perfectly beautiful tiered Wedgewood china cake stands. On one was a range of dainty but artful sandwiches and the other contained the crown jewels of cake-confectionary. Everything looked far too good to touch, let alone eat. Pouring them both tea and adding slices of lemon at their request, the waiter left them in peace. Mycroft made the first move and bit into something with smoked salmon and what looked like whipped creamy cheese.

Sarah sipped her tea and went straight for a frothy piece of cupcake which turned out to be white chocolate mousse. It was divine. Outrageous, hedonistic and utterly divine.

"So, are you?" Mycroft held his teacup and watched her face.

Licking her lips free of any residual cake, Sarah sipped her tea again. "I think," she began, thoughtfully. "That, if you like, I'll leave it to you," she said. "I've honestly never bothered about gender; I don't think it's the least bit important. I believe each person is special in and of themselves. Gender is a secondary attribute in my mind and we're all a bit of both, in any case," she paused, licking the tip of her thumb to capture the very last taste of chocolate. "But I think your mother will be thrilled to know it's a boy and I further think that she'd be even more thrilled if she were to hear it from you rather than me," she added. "Don't ask me why I think so, I just do." That Mycroft would also find the idea thrilling was something she left unsaid.

"You'd let me have that privilege?" Mycroft sat very still. "You already know my family so well?"

"To me, it's only knowledge, not even really a privileged knowledge," Sarah shrugged, finishing her cup and leaned forward to pour a second, but Mycroft beat her to it. "I realise now that the reason I'd never asked about the child's sex before was that I never really considered it in the least important, but clearly it's more than that to you and, I think, to your mother."

Biting into a second sandwich, Mycroft chewed and looked serious as his eyes stared into space and his mind flew back to the small room with the high bed and the Doppler-echo of thudding raindrops. "I think it's probably to do with the symbolic continuance of the male line," he said. "Though that must sound absurdly antiquated and reeking of patriarchy."

"I think it's a little too late now to start finding your political correctness," Sarah laughed, before pointing at a rolled up cake that looked like a mini Swiss-roll wrapped up in marzipan. "What do you think that is and why have they painted pink roses all over the outside?"

"I have absolutely not the slightest idea, nor, frankly, can I be bother to think," Mycroft lay back in the big armchair and closed his eyes momentarily as a smile moved the shape of his face. He leaned forward again and stared unseeing at the plates on the table, his hands dangling over his knees. "I'm going to be a father," he sounded wholly mystified.

"Apparently." Sarah observed dryly as she continued drinking her tea, the corners of her mouth refusing to remain straight. She tweaked an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should see a doctor."

Sitting back in his chair, Mycroft treated her to a more normal, mildly critical glance. "I'm not about to have a fit of the vapours," he lidded his eyes and sipped more tea as he examined a blue and white iced confection that resembled the north face of Everest. "Though I think I need more sugar," he said, breaking off a small piece of the hard icing and trying it for palatability. It was crunchy and terribly sweet and precisely what he wanted. "We also need more tea," he sat back, catching the eye of a passing waiter who immediately nodded and veered off towards a set of large swinging doors.

Sarah felt she'd try something from the savoury plate and dallied with a morsel of olive bread, pesto, pine nuts and the thinnest wafers of fresh parmesan. It was sinfully good. She would have to make some olive bread when she was down in Kent just so she could repeat the experience.

A fresh tray of tea things was delivered immediately after the old ones had been removed in a most efficient manner. The hot bite of fine tea and lemon, delicious food and the fact that Mycroft was, for once, out of his comptroller personality and behaving almost like a normal human, left Sarah in a strangely good mood.

"Yes," she returned to their earlier conversation. "You can make the announcement if you'd like," she smiled over the rim of her cup. "I'll put one of those decadent bottles of your fizzy in the fridge and you can phone them up tonight or tomorrow night and we can all have a little celebration," she lifted her eyebrows, realising that until last week, the possibility of such an event would not have been among her wildest fantasies.

"Tonight?" Mycroft nibbled another small piece of the icing, nodding slowly as he revisited plans and schedules in his mind. "Around eight-thirty to nine?" he nodded again, deciding. "Yes ... I arrange something."

"Then we have a plan," Sarah finished the last bite of her sandwich, sighing. "In which case," she said. "I should think about making a move, though oddly, I find this place strangely comfortable."

"Mummy likes the Langham too," he wiped his fingers on a heavy white napkin. "Not that she stays in town very much these days, but when she does, this is where she prefers to be."

"Not at your place?" Sarah frowned a little. "That surprises me. I'd imagine your mother being quite keen on hanging around with her eldest son."

"Precisely the reason I prefer her to stay here," Mycroft shook his head. "I have almost no time for a conventional family life, nor, quite honestly, am I the sort of man suited to such a situation."

Regarding him with a non-judgemental gaze, Sarah nodded and stood. "Mycroft," she waited until he had also risen to his feet and their eyes were almost level. "You have great taste in cafés, but you come out with the biggest load of cobblers at times," she raised her eyebrows and gave him something his mother might describe as a 'look'. "You had _one_ glimpse of a baby carrying your DNA and your brain went so dippy, you've had to overdose on sugar to stop yourself from falling into a heap. Don't tell me you're not the family type; I won't believe it for a second." Picking up her bag, Sarah straightened her back. "Driving's going to be fun, though I'll probably have to stop and stretch at least once."

"And I can't get you to change your mind and let one of my people drive you down?" Mycroft stood and watched as she got her things together, a bothered look on his face.

"I'll be perfectly fine," Sarah headed for the doors. "It's only an hour. I'll survive for an hour."

Jack was already outside the Langham's tall portico as they walked down the wide stone steps, clearly summoned by some form of telepathy. Holding the rear door open for Sarah to slide inside, he looked to Mycroft for instructions.

"Back to Ms Lawrence's parked car, if you would, Jack," he murmured before sliding into the back seat beside his passenger.

The return trip to Marylebone was as short as the outward journey and Sarah was relieved to see there were no large white papers stuck across the front of her windscreen. Returning the postcard-sized crest to Mycroft, she felt suddenly awkward, as if unsure how to leave him.

"How are you feeling now?" she asked, searching his face. His colour was better and his shoulders had lost the unusual tension she'd noted back in the clinic. "I assume the sugar did the trick?"

"You're going to make a rather spectacular mother, you know," his smile was benign as he held open the Mazda's door for her to clamber in. "Brave, resourceful, clever and eminently practical. Your son will be a fortunate child."

"Your son too," Sarah smiled as she closed the door between them, lowering the window. "I'm more or less just transport at this point," she smiled.

A look of whimsy crossed his face as Mycroft regarded her in the driver's seat. "The car suits, I see."

"The car suits very well, though we need to have a talk about what constitutes a rental," Sarah raised her eyebrows, though she was in too good a mood to say anything more. "I'll see you down in Kent at some point?"

"Yes," he nodded, sliding both hands into his trouser pockets. "That's the plan, though I can't say exactly when."

"I dare say your mother will enjoy bending your ear about all sorts of things now," Sarah waggled her eyebrows as she activated the sat nav, only to see the route down to Eynsford had already been plotted for her. Sighing with mock resignation, she belted up, starting the car. "Carry some sweeties in case you have a relapse," she laughed, waving as she checked all her mirrors and pulled out into the road. Heading towards Park Lane and eventually, down across Westminster Bridge, Sarah found the traffic reasonable until she hit a series of red lights on the main road through the Elephant and Castle. The weather was still dry, but night was already drawing in. By the time she got down to the farmhouse, it would be completely dark. However, other than some congestion at New Cross Road, it was clear driving all the way down the A20 and she saw the first sign for Eynsford at the Sidcup Bypass. Just over ten miles to go.

###

Ensconced once again in his Whitehall office, Mycroft slid the silver disk into an inconspicuous slot just beneath the top of his desk and flipped open his laptop. In an instant, the scan of the baby replayed itself from the beginning, this time with the rapid, echoing double-beat softly filling the air from the start. He watched the amorphous shape focus and solidify and take on recognisable qualities and form. The baby stretched and flexed as if he was impatient to be born and keen to begin life in the larger world beyond his current nursery. The man's eyes were captivated by every flicker of movement, each twitch, every wriggle.

 _This is my child. There is part of me in every part of him. I am going to have a son._

His eyes scanned the shape of the face, the curve of the closed eyelids and the cherubic mouth. He watched the fingers as they curled and uncurled; the tiny nails, the long legs tucked ergonomically underneath the tiny body like some ancient Himalayan mystic.

And Sarah had given him the task and privilege of sharing the news with his parents. They would be ... they would _both_ be ... His mother would be torn between weeping and wild elation. Father would be stoic at first, not wanting to let his joy out too easily and risk being considered something other than British. They would both be as stunned as he had been. Sarah had no concept of what this news would mean to them. Mycroft swallowed. A telephone call would not suffice. He tapped his intercom.

"Anthea, a moment if you will."

###

The lights were bright when she pulled the Mazda into the farmhouse drive, the front door opening just as she pulled the car neatly to one side of the house.

"Welcome back, my dear," Bill looked overjoyed to see her, even though she'd only been gone a couple of days. "Let me take your bags inside."

"I've brought a few, but they're not big ones; I wanted to be able to carry them myself."

"I'm under the strictest of instructions not to let you lift a finger," he stood tall and stared down at her with lidded eyes in what he probably imagined was a commanding manner. Sarah thought he looked like a silver-haired teddy bear. "So just go in inside and tell my wife what it is you would like for dinner; I believe she's fully prepared to slaughter the fatted calf on the slightest excuse."

Sarah wondered who had given the order that she wasn't to carry anything: Lillian or Mycroft? Both of them seemed the take-charge type.

"Come in, come in," the lady herself was all but dancing with excitement in the doorway. "Did you have a good drive? Did you get everything done that you wanted? How was the scan? Is everything alright? Did Mykie look after you like I told him to?"

Not yet in the house and Sarah felt her eyes widening at the barrage of enthusiastic questions.

"Now, Mother," Bill came in behind them, two bags in each hand. "Let the girl be. She's probably had a very busy day already and doesn't need to have a third degree from us on top of it all."

"Yes, my darling," Lillian was already sliding an arm around their guest's back, giving Sarah a sideways hug. "Of course, you're right. I'm just so pleased to see our girl back again."

 _Our girl._ Sarah felt a sudden burn in her eyes. The Holmes's were such kind people.

"I come bearing gifts," she said, smiling and turning as she saw Bill returning with the last of her bags, one of which was a black, square-ish duffle. "Oh, let me have that one, please," she stepped forward, taking it from his hand. "There's things in here for you."

"There's no need to get us anything, you know that," Lillian was already in the process of making tea. "Are you hungry? Is there anything in particular you'd like for dinner?"

"I'm not starving, actually," Sarah plonked the bag down onto a handy chair. "Mycroft treated me to afternoon tea at the Langham which was very thoughtful of him."

"I do love that hotel," Lillian bustled about clinking teacups and small plates. "One of the last bastions of civilised living in London, if you ask me," she paused. "But you absolutely must eat _something_ ," she added, frowning and sounding mildly concerned. "I made mushroom soup for lunch, and there's a decent amount left. How would you feel about some of that and some hot crusty bread, hmm?"

"Perfect," Sarah stretched her back which was aching. "I may need to organise another of those massages tomorrow," she mused. "My back's been aching all day."

"Driving around in cars is not the best thing for a pregnant back," Lillian poured tea, sounding like the world's authority on the topic. "How was the scan? Everything as it should be?"

 _I'm going to be a father ..._ Sarah heard Mycroft's dazed voice in her head and smiled. "Everything was absolutely fine," she said. "The baby is growing like a weed and has definitely put on some serious mass since the last scan. My doctor was pleased with the way I was looking so much better too."

"Just as I said," Lillian sat, regarding the younger woman over the rim of her teacup. "All you needed was some time to relax and let your body catch up with all the things it was missing," she smiled triumphantly. "I knew it."

"You should write a book about your maternal experiences, my love," Bill returned, taking his seat at the kitchen table. "The BBC might make it into a television series."

"Oh shush," Lillian returned to the stove where a small saucepan was heating the soup. "When do you need to go back for your next appointment?"

"Six weeks," Sarah sat back as a steaming soup bowl was placed in front of her at the kitchen table. "And then back up again in time for the big day," she closed her eyes at the sublime taste of the soup. "Everything tastes so much better down here," she sighed, pulling apart a warm chunk of fresh bread and dipping some of it in the soup. "Anything exciting happen while I was away?"

"Well, Olivia Stave-Gordon came to call, as I well suspected she might," Lillian sat down at the table and watched Sarah eat. "That's some of her bread you're eating."

"It's fantastic," Sarah nibbled another piece. "I may have to make peace with the woman and get her recipe," she paused. "Which reminds me." Standing slowly, she moved across to the black duffle, digging inside for two packages. A heavy oblong and quite obviously book-shaped one for Bill and a squashy square package for Lillian. "I saw these and immediately thought of you, which means you were meant to have them."

"That's how things work, is it?" Bill smiled as he accepted the book, unwrapping the paper and putting his reading glasses on to see the smaller print below the title. " _Sweet Dreams_ ," he read, peering back at the young woman over the top of the frames. "Something I should know about?"

"It's got a really good recipe for Turkish Delight," Sarah grinned as she polished off the last of the bread and started on the soup. "I know you like it."

"Oh, and how _lovely!_ " Lillian shook the Liberty gilet flat. "What an adorable piece of tweed," she murmured, feeling the soft woollen weave between her fingers. "Perfect for around the village. How very generous of you, my dear," she leaned over and kissed Sarah on the cheek.

About to point out that the gift was minor in the face of everything she'd already received from the both of them, they all paused at the sound of a car pulling into the drive.

"Well, who could that be at this hour?" Lillian waved Sarah back to her soup and Bill back to his book as she went to investigate who might want to visit them after dark.

"Mummy and I spent the last day cleaning out Mycroft's old room," Bill rested the big book on the table. "I said we'd already waited far too long for him to decide what to do with all his old stuff, so we boxed up all his school books and things and rehoused them in my shed," he said. "Then Mummy took a good couple of hours up there swearing quite creatively at things as she dusted," Bill dropped his voice. "Though I felt it best not to inquire at what, exactly," he grinned softly. "There's a bit more room up there for you and your things now though," he added. "Though if the stairs ever start to get too much, just say the word and we'll whisk you into the downstairs guest room."

"The stairs are no problem at ..." Sarah's words tailed off as Lillian returned from the front door in the process of unwrapping a very tiny clear plastic box that she held carefully in both her hands. Her face was strangely blank.

Bill rose to his feet. "Mummy?" he asked, immediately concerned. "Whatever's the matter?"

Shaking her head, Lillian simply passed the plastic box to her husband over Sarah's head. Lifting his reading glasses back up to his face, Bill examined the almost weightless plastic cube, seeing nothing inside, except ...

" _Oh_ ," his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He sat suddenly, as if strings had been cut. "Oh my goodness."

Staring first at Lillian and then her husband, Sarah was about to demand to know what was going on, when she saw Mycroft standing in the kitchen doorway, his arms full of a very large bouquet of flowers. The expression on his face was one of unmitigated satisfaction. Bill turned the cube so that Sarah could see inside. It was a pair of tiny baby's bootees. Blue ones.

"It's a boy," Mycroft announced formally, walking closer. "Sarah gave me permission to tell you after her visit to the clinic this afternoon and I was about to telephone ..." his mouth twitched. "However, I felt the occasion merited slightly more than a phone call."

Walking over to where Sarah was still seated at the table, he laid the flowers in front of her, watching her face and her eyes. "Thank you," his smile was so genuine, she felt her eyes burning again. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. "This means so much to my parents," he murmured.

"Oh _Mykie_ ," Lillian pressed a hand across her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, my dearest Sarah," she whispered. "This is ... this is _so_ wonderful ... Bill and I are just so ..."

"Well done, my dear," Bill cleared his throat and dropped his glasses to the table. "Very well done indeed."

"This is something you might want to add to the family photo-album," Mycroft reached inside his jacket, pulling out a stiff A4 envelope. Inside were several static prints from the downloaded scan, each one showing the baby in a different position. "There's no doubt he's a boy," he added dryly, handing over the final print to his mother.

"Oh, Sarah," Lillian reached for the younger woman, hugging her gently. "Thank you so much for this; it's the most marvellous news."

Having to blink her eyes clear, Sarah sucked down a deep breath. This was all a little intense and she cleared her throat. "I think Mycroft just wanted an excuse to be a bit of a drama queen," she explored the flowers covering half the table in front of her. Red and peach and white roses; Orange Ilex berries; the green-white of Amarylis and rusty Calla lily. The fragrance alone was stupendous, but the _colours_ ... Looking up, she saw he was still watching her with those dark blues eyes of his, so like her own. "You've gone completely mad, you know," she smiled. "But these are gorgeous flowers, so your madness is to my advantage."

"I confess to still feeling a little giddy," Mycroft smiled, walking to the refrigerator and pulling out the special bottle of non-alcoholic _Moet_ he knew his parents would have been keeping in there. Collecting a handful of slender glass flutes from the glass-cabinet, he removed the cork with a minimum of fuss and shared the bubbling golden liquid between them. "A toast," he handed a glass to Sarah and one to his mother as Bill reached for his own. "To the next generation," he offered simply.

"I drove directly here from London," Sarah noted after she'd sipped the wine, as delicious as it ever was. "And the motorway was fairly clear, so I made reasonable time. Even so, I've not been here more than half-an-hour," she said, looking at her wristwatch. "And I know you said you were returning to your own office ... you must have _flown_ down to get here this quickly," Sarah raised both eyebrows, an amused expression on her face.

"We ... that is, Jack, may have used the special blue lights upon occasion ..." Mycroft sipped champagne and adopted an expedient innocence.

"Which is ethically and morally wrong of you," Lillian sat down and opened the diminutive plastic box, extracting the bootees, tiny even in her small fingers. "Though I think I can forgive you this once for abusing the power of your office," she added, her eyes filled with the miniature knitted items. "Have you thought of a name yet, Sarah?"

 _A name?_ Sarah felt her eyes open wide as the glass froze in her hand. There had been dozens and dozens of names and yet not a single one had stuck, not that she'd really made any sort of conscious choice in the matter since she hadn't known before today what kind of name she might even need to consider.

"I ...well, I ... Not really," she shook her head in all honesty. "Of course, I've had lots of different names go through my head, though none of them felt quite ... right," she looked up in time to see Mycroft hiding a faint smile behind his champagne glass. "None of the modern names really appeal, though there are a number of European boy's names I can consider now, of course."

"Lots of good, old-fashioned boys names out there," his emotions back on the level, Bill was once again seated at the kitchen table as Lillian was digging out her largest vase for the flowers. "Some good British ones, too. Enoch ... Jacob ... Zackery ... Joseph."

"All of which are biblical and hardly Anglo Saxon, father," refilling everyone's glass, Mycroft disposed of the empty bottle. "If that was your intention."

"Well, I think there are some lovely old names," Lillian half-filled a monster crystal vase with water, sliding the entire bouquet in as it was. Sarah could arrange it as she pleased in the morning. "Some really nice names from the States, if you were feeling in a Colonial frame of mind," she paused, thinking. "Thaddeus is rather lovely, I always thought. And Vaughn," she added. "Then, of course, there's Chandler ... Nixon's quite nice too."

 _Nixon?_

As one, Sarah and Mycroft met each other's horrified gaze.

" _Not_ Nixon, Mummy," he paused, watching Sarah struggling to keep her face straight. "And I'm fairly sure none of us need to supply any names at all; whatever Sarah selects will be fitting."

There was the faint sound of a car engine pulling up outside the farmhouse and Mycroft looked thoughtful. Jack was still in the Jaguar outside, having elected to stay in the warm car and read a few chapters of the latest popular thriller to hit the bookshops. Therefore, it was a second car. Glancing up at the large wood-framed clock on the kitchen wall, he saw that the hour was indeed growing late for visitors.

"Expecting anyone?" he asked quietly, turning his head to look at his mother.

"We weren't expecting you, and we certainly didn't think anyone else would be out here at this time of the evening," Lillian was already on the way out to the front door. "Edward's nice too," she called back over her shoulder. "How about Angus?"

There was the distant noise of the door being opened and Lillian's faint exclamation of surprise and welcome. The firm sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Mycroft looked suddenly weary.

"What about Angus?" Standing in the centre of the warm kitchen, swathed in a long, dark coat and peeling leather gloves away from his long fingers, Sherlock Holmes stared around, his gaze inevitably coming to rest on the unexpected stranger in the family bosom.


	11. Eleven

Knowing, without question, precisely what thoughts were flashing through his brother's mind and deciding on a pre-emptive strike, Mycroft stood and drew Sherlock's scrutiny to himself. Allowing a calm and slightly droll expression to tilt the corner of his mouth, the elder brother half turned, extending a gentle and courteous hand towards Sarah, aware of the significance Sherlock would read into action. He held a small hope that his brother might actually respect its importance.

Instinctively realising that this was somehow a defining moment though not really understanding why, Sarah rose to her feet. Levelling her gaze at the newcomer, she met a pair of blue-grey and deeply curious eyes at virtually the same height as her own. Sarah knew exactly who this man was; even disregarding the casual ease with which he now stood in the Holmes' kitchen, she'd seen his photo in the papers. She had the distinct feeling that everyone was waiting for the other boot to drop.

She took a breath ...

Mycroft took a breath ...

Sherlock took a breath ... _Mid-thirties, British though not necessarily English_ ... quality clothing suggests discerning taste; well off and well educated ... _enjoys the good things money brought; earrings Spanish and designer-made, wrap woven in Bolivia, boots Italian;_ well-travelled, hence international labels ... well-nourished, in good health and now pregnant and here ... why here? Why _pregnant_ and _here?_ With _Mycroft?_ _Pregnant and with Mycroft?_ _Standing close together, definitely not strangers and neither parent showing 'visitor' politeness_... large bunch of expensive flowers in the vase by the sink; _empty champagne bottle, empty champagne glasses on the table_ ; small plastic box on the table containing ... _ahh_. No wonder he's looking smug ... but no rings on their hands ... _there are no rings_ ... she's not even his type ... oh, _Mycroft_ , what _have_ you done?

"Sarah Lawrence," she said brightly, offering her hand in anticipation of Mycroft's introductions. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes."

" _Ah_ ," Sherlock exhaled and nodded ... _yes, of course,_ _the travel writer_ ... slowly taking and shaking her hand and pausing thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her face before turning to his brother. "You were about to say something?" His pale eyes swiftly returned to an assessment of the woman in front of him.

"Ms Lawrence is to be a guest of our parents until Christmas," Mycroft blinked slowly, regaining his brother's attention, determined to say what needed to be said before the questions began. "Yes; in fact the lady _is_ carrying the next generation of the family. No, Ms Lawrence and I are not an 'item', nor is this an exploitative arrangement of any description, and yes, technically, you are to be an uncle, Sherlock. Congratulations."

He switched his attention back to Sarah. "My younger brother, Sherlock," he said, a resigned smile shaping his mouth. "Please pay his poor manners no heed; Sherlock decided long ago that an uncouth rudeness served him far more productively than ever did the more civilised behaviours."

"Well, now that _that's_ out of the way, I'll put the kettle on for anyone who wants tea," having watched the little drama unfold, Lillian heaved herself out of her chair. "Be nice now, Sherlock, or I shall hurl you bodily out the door. Is John with you?"

"He's just seeing to the car," Sherlock responded vaguely, his eyes riveted once more on Sarah's face. "Apparently, we have a troublesome oil-pan."

"Cars often do," deliberately ignoring the almost overpowering scrutiny, Sarah nodded amiably. "Go over a bump in the road?"

"A Ferrari," Sherlock frowned vaguely, then suddenly looked intensely dubious. "I'm sorry, but my brother _did_ say that he wasn't paying you for this?" he waved cautiously at the area about Sarah's middle.

"Sher _lock_ ," Mycroft was offended on Sarah's behalf and instantly cross. He knew well enough now that she'd neither relish nor appreciate one of his brother's public dissections. " _Enough_." His fingers slid reassuringly beneath her elbow.

"Evening, all," John's cheerful tones broke into the rapidly cooling temperature of the room. Looking around, he stopped suddenly. "Oh, sorry," he began, awkward at interrupting what was clearly an evening with guests ... until he saw Mycroft scowling at Sherlock. Only two minutes in the house and the boys were at it already? Possibly a record.

In the same moment, he noticed Sarah. And he saw her hands rest protectively across a distinctly pregnant belly. Instantly, he looked back at Mycroft's crossness, then flicked his eyes to his flatmate's expression of aghast fascination.

John reached the absentminded conclusion that the woman and possibly the child ... _hmm_ , _seven months_ ... were both something to do with the elder brother, especially since he had a hand rather interestingly under her arm. Swinging around, John took in the calm faces of both Holmes' parents; Bill, seated at the kitchen table looking positively benign, Lillian clanking about with the kettle. A perfectly normal family scene. It seemed nothing was worrying either of them.

However, judging by the increasingly blank quality of Sherlock's expression, there was at least one person in the room who was having difficulty digesting something.

"Problem, Sherlock?"

" _Aaahm_ ... no," switching on a slightly manic smile, the younger Holmes twisted to face his friend, before revolving back to the strange woman who, despite his brother's assurances that this was not a romantic alliance, seemed to have no problem allowing Mycroft to touch her arm in an appallingly familiar manner. "John, I'd like you to meet Sarah Lawrence, she of travel-writing fame. Apparently Ms Lawrence knows Mycroft, though not, it seems, in the biblical sense," he spoke rapidly, flapping a hand vaguely toward his brother. "Ms Lawrence has obviously travelled a great deal and yet not quite far enough since she has ended up back in London which is where she somehow met up with ..." he waved several fingers in Mycroft's general direction. "Yet I'm technically to be an uncle, which is, when you think about everything, really quite extraordinary, but you're the doctor, so I'll defer to your appraisal of the situation. How's the oil pan?"

"Sherlock," Bill sighed. "Sit down son and have a cup of tea. You'll have one too, John, won't you? How come you're both down this way at this time of the night?"

"Never say no to a cuppa," John swung himself into a convenient seat at the table, aware of Sherlock throwing himself into a wooden armchair in the corner, watching Mycroft and the travel-writing stranger without trying to look as if he were watching. "We were trailing a member of a money-laundering gang driving a insanely expensive car all the way down here until he suddenly decided a game of cross-country chicken would make an interesting end to the day," he raised his eyebrows and rubbed a hand over his face. "And the oil-pan's fine, though no thanks to your mad bloody driving," he leaned sideways in his chair to catch Sherlock's eye with a vigorously disapproving glare. "The local police have him now, after his fancy expensive car was somehow shoved into a ditch." John rested his linked fingers on the table and refused to look even mildly guilty.

"I read about your recent exploits in the paper," Sarah retook her seat. "You must be John Watson?"

Mycroft was instantly abashed, his thoughts having been momentarily distracted by the idea of Sherlock having once again engaged in such feckless behaviour. "Forgive me, Sarah," he frowned, gesturing towards the blond man. "This _is_ Doctor John Watson, a most valued colleague of my brother, who also works with the police on a consulting basis," he paused, facing the latest with a faint sigh. "John, this is Sarah Lawrence who, as my dear brother has already observed, is a most successful writer and journalist in the travel and tourism industries."

"And a lovely girl who is doing a very brave thing and who needs a little TLC," Lillian called over as she poured boiling water into the pot. "If I hear anything against her I shall turn into a positive fiend."

Meeting John's blue gaze, Sarah smiled and rolled her eyes, amused by the all the Holmesian dramatics.

"And how are you John? Is Mrs Hudson still her usual acerbic self?" Mycroft sat again, fully aware of Sherlock's eyes on him. On him and the woman seated beside him.

"All's well in Baker Street," John smiled a practised, but non-committal smile as he focused on the Lawrence woman. "Travel writer?"

"Absolutely," Sarah grinned. "Even after all these years, I still find it hard to believe that people are willing to pay me for jet-setting around the world, staying at the best hotels and having the time of my life," she smiled. "Though I suspect a lot of that will change when this one arrives," she flexed the fingers resting on her front.

"We found out only today that Sarah is to have a boy," Mycroft discovered he was becoming quite blasé about the fact, able to discuss it openly now and without the slightest giddiness whatsoever, though he acknowledged something of a tingle.

"Ah," John smiled as he picked up the clear plastic box between two fingers. "Hence these," he said, holding the tiny blue bootees in his hand. They really were very small things; he smiled at the impossible cuteness.

In the corner, Sherlock watched, his eyes suddenly becoming focused and reflective. "Of _course_ ," he said, quietly, extrapolating the exact series of events that had led to Mycroft and Sarah Lawrence being here tonight. "Are you going to sue the clinic? It would clearly be an upmarket, private place, easily able to afford hush-money," he asked, turning away from his inward thoughts to meet Sarah's gaze. "I can only imagine it must have come as something of a shock when my brother approached you," he mused, accepting the cup of tea Lillian handed him. "Or did he have one of his underlings do it for him? Did he play his usual game of meeting you somewhere isolated and alone?" Sherlock paused, blinking several times. "But no point frightening you if he was concerned about the wellbeing of the child, I suppose," he shook his head, frowning again. "Where did you first meet?"

Smiling up at Lillian as the older woman placed a steaming cup of tea on the table in front of her, Sarah ignored Mycroft's increasingly tense posture. "At Heathrow," she smiled again. "I fainted."

"Mykie?" Lillian stopped what she was doing and frowned at her eldest. "Did you upset Sarah the first time you two met?"

Closing both eyes for a moment, Mycroft felt Sarah's gaze on him "Perhaps not my best moment," he admitted in a vaguely pained tone. "Though, in my defence, it was a method of last resort. Sarah had successfully evaded my previous attempts at contact."

"Really?" Sherlock leaned forward and looked entranced. "He had to actually chase you himself? _In_ _person?_ " the younger Holmes grinned with a hint of malice. "Oh, well done."

"This isn't a sporting event, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped. "Do not mock what is beyond your understanding," he stopped himself from resting his fingers on Sarah's arm again. He really did not want her getting upset. Especially not at him, not after they'd finally reached some sort of _entente_.

 _So ... not an affair of the heart ..._ he observed the aborted movement of his brother's hand _..._ and yet ... Sherlock sank back in his armchair, the fingertips of his fingers resting softly together. _And yet_ ... Mycroft seemed to be less than his usually aloof and impervious self, a point of note in its own right. And the woman appeared totally comfortable with his brother's presence. Nor did either of his parents seem to be even remotely uneasy about the state of play. This promised to be an interesting situation and one very much worthy of watching. His brother had finally landed a fish and a reasonably exotic specimen at that. But would she stay hooked or would Sarah Lawrence wriggle away back into the river at some point?

"Are you staying here?" John returned his empty cup to the table and looked at the elder sibling. "Or are you going back to London tonight?" he asked. "I see your car and driver out there."

"Yes," Mycroft inhaled and sat straighter in his chair, his eyes turning towards Sarah. "I realise it was impulsive to travel down here simply to make an announcement," he smiled and looked down at the backs of his outstretched fingers. "Though I'm very glad I did. However you are correct, John," he stood, looking first at his fob watch and then at his parents. "I'm afraid I should be off; I have a raft of meetings lined up in the morning, with an early start."

"It was a little silly, yes," Sarah stood too, turning to glance at the glowing flowers in the huge vase by the sink. "But it was very kind of you to want to make a special occasion of this for your parents," she smiled at him, her gaze flicking warmly over Bill and Lillian. "Thank you."

Mycroft half-frowned. "It wasn't only for ..."

Lillian interrupted as she started clearing away the cups. "It was very sweet of you to come all the way down from town, darling," she said, reaching up and kissing her eldest son on the cheek. "I expect we might be seeing a bit more of you now that you know Sarah's going to be here for the next few weeks? I think it would be nice."

Turning to meet Sarah's amused gaze, Mycroft looked thoughtful. "It might, at that," he nodded. "But now I must be off. I assume you don't need assistance with your car?" he asked, glancing from his brother to John and back. "I can arrange a mechanic if the vehicle is damaged."

"Nothing seriously dented other than John's hubris at risking his claim-free insurance premium," Sherlock stood also meeting his brother's eyes as he buttoned his coat.

" _I_ wasn't the idiot driving, if you remember," John scowled up from his seat.

"Though it is _your_ name on the car rental application, I believe?" Sherlock smiled regretfully. "Not to worry; I'm sure you'll come up with a perfectly reasonable explanation for the oil leak before you return the car to the rental agency tomorrow," he sounded cheerful as he looked around the room, catching Sarah's eye. "Everyone appreciates a good, rational explanation for the unexpected," he added, blinking slowly.

Looking down at Sarah still seated in the kitchen chair, Mycroft felt an unexpected warmth in his chest. He had never felt quite this way about anything before; he would do everything in his not inconsiderable power to ensure she didn't regret her decision to let his family become involved with the child. _I shall have a son ... a son ..._

"Take the greatest care," he murmured, pulling on leather gloves. "If there's the slightest thing I may do to make your stay more comfortable, you need only ring or text." He paused, just for a moment, before lowering his chin and inhaling sharply. "I must be off." Nodding to all, with a final enigmatic look towards Sarah, he left the farmhouse.

"And we should be off as well, I suppose," John got to his feet, wincing at the muscles that had stiffened since he sat down. "It's a good hour's drive back to the city at this time of night and I'm for a hot bath. I'll just check the car's going to start first though; give me a minute," he said over his shoulder to his tall accomplice in bad driving.

Sarah also clambered to her feet, a hand resting in the small of her back which felt hot and a little painful, as if she'd twisted too sharply. A good night's sleep should help. Crossing the kitchen towards the sink with her empty cup and saucer, she was only moderately surprised to find Sherlock had followed her, already pulling his gloves back on.

"My brother is a complicated man," he spoke too quietly for his parents to hear. "I consider him overbearing and pompous and believe he allows the government to place far too much authority on him for the good of the nation," he added. "He is also something of a traditionalist," he paused, as if considering his words. "For whatever reason, you have decided to allow him, and through him, the rest of my family, access into your life," he said. "And for the sake of your child, _his_ child, he can and will move heaven and earth," Sherlock finished fiddling with his gloves and took a breath, his eyes dark with intent as he stared into her face. "But also be aware that Mycroft is a pragmatist and something of an ascetic who has cultivated a lifestyle whereby he needs nothing and nobody and will deal with you only as far as it gets him what he wants," he frowned as he saw Sarah's hand rest on her belly. "Take care, Ms Lawrence, that my brother does not start to see you merely as a means to an end rather than an end in itself."

Sarah felt the hairs on her arms prickle. "What are you trying to warn me about, Sherlock?" she saw no deception in the man standing opposite her, nor did she hear duplicity in his words. Sherlock had no reason to lie and, in fact, hadn't she already witnessed Mycroft's pragmatism up close and personally?

The tall man hesitated and allowed a small smile to curve the side of his mouth. "Probably nothing," he shrugged and tweaked an eyebrow. "I have occasionally been accused of over-dramatizing things," he admitted, tilting his head a fraction. "But as I said, my brother is a complicated man with complex motivations. I recommend you don't take everything at face value, that's all," Sherlock stepped back, assessing her again with a single glance. "Take care," he nodded, then turned swiftly and walked out of the kitchen calling a brief farewell to his parents as his coat swirled through the door.

"Both the same, those boys of ours," Lillian filled the kettle for a fresh cup of tea. "Always rushing off and doing the strangest things, though Mycroft has always been the more discreet of the two," she added, opening the tea-caddy. "Always kept himself to himself, has our eldest," she smiled across at Sarah, still standing by the sink, fingers absently stroking one of the roses in the vase. "Though I expect that will change now, don't you?"

She had always known that Mycroft's interest lay only in the child she was carrying, but she had begun to feel sure that he respected her at least enough to see her as worthy in her own right. Thinking of Sherlock's parting words; suddenly she wasn't sure at all.

###

Walking slowly up the small enclosed stone stair towards Mycroft's old room, Sarah realised just how comfortable she'd become at the farmhouse in the short time she'd already spent here. Less than a week ago, all this would have been unimaginable and now ... she walked around the corner of the stairwell and took the few steps along the passage to her temporary home away from home.

Opening the partially closed door and flicking on the light, Sarah smiled at the changes that had taken place in the couple of days she'd been away in London. For one thing, there was a great deal more empty space, with only a few items on the glowing wood shelves; adventure novels and puzzles that Sarah herself might find interesting. The two tall cupboards built into the wall either side of the bed and which Sarah hadn't even bothered to open before, stood slightly open and were virtually empty; a couple of long coats in one and several knitted jumpers on a shelf in the other. Both cupboards had clearly been emptied and thoroughly cleaned; the scent of lemon polish clung to several surfaces around the room, though not so strongly as to be overpowering. There was also a feeling that the window had been opened to let a breeze blow through; there was a new freshness about the place. Bill had stacked all her bags on the cleared bureau desk beside the empty bookshelves so that she could unpack her things at a pace that suited her.

Locating the one that had her night things and a more comprehensive set of toiletries, she set about making her temporary nest more familiar. Shampoo and toothpaste and all the usual paraphernalia were stacked around the bathroom, with her favourite creamy soap and the huge pot of organic skin cream she used for just about everything. A sudden twinge in the small of her back had Sarah grit her teeth; she should go and see about a hot-water bottle to get rid of the ache or she'd not sleep terribly well. Cleaning her teeth and having a quick wash, she undressed and threw on baggy pyjamas and Mycroft's old dressing gown, about to head back downstairs when a quiet tapping on the bedroom door drew her attention.

"Thought you might like a couple of these tonight," Lillian came into the room clutching a pair of gurgling hot-water bottles, each clad in their own stylish knitted jacket. "I could see you were in discomfort since you got here, and I remember only too well how pregnancy took me with both the boys. Have you tried a TENS machine?" she asked. "There's a couple of them around here somewhere; Daddy uses it for his lumbago and I sometimes get stiff shoulders. If you want to give it a try, I'll find one of them for you in the morning."

"My obstetrician said I could start using one any time I liked now, as long as I kept it only for my back. I'd been thinking of getting one myself. Do they work?"

"For me, they work a treat, but you'd need to see how it does for you; not everyone gets the same relief from it. If you're going to have a massage tomorrow, see if Trish can give you a demo; I know she's got a whole range of different things in the clinic, and she'd know the best way of making them work for you, I'm sure."

"Sounds like a plan," Sarah groaned as she slid into the freshly made-up bed while Lillian put one hot bottle at her feet and the other in the curve of her back. _Bliss_.

"Is there anything else I can get for you my dear, or are you going to have an early night?"

"I am feeling a bit on the weary side," Sarah yawned, her back muscles finally relaxing under the gentle radiant heat.

"Then I'll leave you in peace to have a good night's sleep. Don't even think of getting up early; just let us pamper you for a while."

About to make a polite reply, Sarah yawned so hard that tears came to her eyes.

Lillian laughed. "Good night, my dear girl," she rubbed Sarah's shoulder gently before leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind her. Stretching out an arm, Sarah found the switch for the bedside lamp and clicked it off. In the quiet dark, amid the scent of lemon polish, fresh bedlinen and country air, she was asleep in moments, having had no time at all to ponder Sherlock's parting words.

###

The next few days were more about establishing a new routine for everyone as much as anything else. While she was just staying for a few days, it didn't much matter, but now that Sarah was going to be living down at the farmhouse for a couple of months, some form of plan was essential. She still had a couple of small projects yet to be completed and sent off to Milt. Fortunately, Mycroft had set the farmhouse up with very decent WiFi for the rare occasions he spent any time at his parent's house and Sarah smiled the first time she'd tried to download a set of graphics for one of her commissions; any faster and she'd have missed it. She made a mental note to give Milton Ajax a call as soon as she'd worked out the final details of her writing schedule.

Trish in the massage clinic down by the river crossing was entirely sympathetic with the back-pain problem, regaling Sarah with story after story of the mad things various unnamed people in the village did that she had to sort out with her box of tricks. The massage however, was a brainwave and Sarah groaned in pleasurable torment as tight niggly muscles gave way under slow expert persistence.

"Not that I'm trying to drum up business," she said, "but you really should have a massage at least once or twice a week if your back is getting this strained all the time. What is it you do that puts such tension on your muscles?"

Pushing up to a seated position now that the massage was finished, Sarah stretched upwards and sighed in utter relief. "Usually, it's because I sit in a chair for hours and write, though this time it's because I've been sitting in cars quite a lot the last few days," she said. "Sitting and writing is one of the bugbears of the job, but there's not much of an option when you're under a deadline and have to knock out a seven-thousand word book chapter in a few days," she shrugged.

"I'll have a word with my cousin Debbie who's an Occupational Therapist up at the cottage hospital, if you like," Trish looked thoughtful. "If you're going to be here for a while, you may as well make the most of the local facilities and there a special hydrotherapy spa bath up there that sits idle a lot of the time. I'm sure that a regular session in that wouldn't go amiss. The hospital's up by the Five Bells, just on the corner of Bower Lane, not ten minutes from Lillian and Bill's place by car; you should give it a try."

"I don't suppose there's a swimming pool anywhere nearby?" Sarah slid of the bed to dress.

"Well, there's the White Oak leisure centre about five miles away in Swanley," Trish screwed up her face in thought. "It's pretty nice, though you need to be a member to use the place on a regular basis."

"That's not a problem, and I have my own transport," Sarah stood, her back feeling better than it had for days. "God, that's fantastic," she groaned again at the delicious sensation of elasticity in her muscles.

"Here's Debbie's card," Trish handed over a small white square with the usual contact information and address. "I'll let her know to expect your call; I'm sure she can work something out with you."

"That's fantastic too," Sarah grinned as she shoved the card in her coat pocket. "I think I'll book up a few massages over the next couple of weeks in any case," she added. "Using the local facilities and all that."

"Catch you soon, in that case," Trish smiled back as she folded her towels away.

Driving back to the farmhouse, Sarah had remembered to call into the general shop and newsagent for some fresh milk, surprised to find something of an exotic line in goat-milk products. Not only some divinely-scented and creamy skin lotion, but also soaps and bath milk and even a shampoo and conditioner. There was also actual goat's milk and yoghurt, something of an acquired taste which Sarah had learned to love when she had worked in Greece several years before. Feeling happily impulsive, she filled a basket with all the things that caught her fancy and took them with her.

"Oh, that's all from Donny Leigh down at Mill farm," Lillian laughed when she saw Sarah's basket of treasure. "He has a large herd of goats and decided to introduce the village to the benefits of goat products. He even lets people 'rent' small groups of goats for a few days to tidy up their gardens, as long as there's secure fencing; those creatures eat their way through absolutely everything," she smiled. "I may have to get a few into the orchard in the spring to clean the place up."

Over lunch, Sarah broached the subject of her work. "I have some writing to complete before I can completely relax," she said. "It shouldn't take me long, but I need somewhere quiet and without any distractions," she paused. "I see there's an old bureau in Mycroft's room ... do you think he'd mind if I used it for my writing? I only need somewhere to put my laptop and my notes ..."

"My dear, you just go right ahead and do whatever you need to do," Lillian pushed a plate of still-warm oatmeal and honey biscuits she'd made to accompany the tea. "I sincerely doubt there's anything of national secrecy in my son's old school desk; just move what you need to move, or let daddy do it for you, and then do whatever you need to do. Just not too much, perhaps? You don't want to undo all the good work these last few days have brought, do you?"

"Point taken," Sarah nibbled the sweet and chewy biscuit and sipped the hot tea. The whole morning had been so unbelievably relaxing that she smiled for no reason at all.

Back in her new bedroom-come-office, she finally sat down on the edge of the bed and rang her agent. " _Milt_ ," she smiled along the air waves to London. "How are you? It feels like we haven't spoken for weeks."

"Eleven days and ..." there was a pause as he checked his watch. "Six hours," he answered. "Though who's counting? How are you, my most favourite and pregnant of authors?"

"Staying in Kent with ... family, until Christmas," she smiled again. "I should have those last two pieces to you between now and the middle of next week," she said. "No problem at all there."

"Fabulous, I can't wait to read them and send them off," Milt paused again, though this time it didn't sound as if her were looking at anything, but as if he were thinking.

"What?" Sarah knew Milt's pauses.

"Nothing really," her agent voice held a tone she recognised; the same tone of voice he used whenever something interesting was in the wind.

"Tell me."

Milt sighed. He didn't really want to tell her anything.

Sarah recognised the sigh as well. " _Tell_ me," she insisted.

"There's a job just come up," he admitted grudgingly. "They asked for you by name."

"Oh?"

" _Mmm_. Quite a significant commission, not that you need the money," there was silence.

"How big a commission, Milt?" Sarah was curious.

"Pretty big."

" _How_ big?"

"Quarter of a mil," there was a faint sigh down the phone. That was a huge commission in anyone's world. _A quarter of a million pounds_.

" _Jesus_ , Milt," Sarah felt her heart beat a little harder. "What's the job?" It would have to be something very big and very long-term and probably involve an entire year's worth of globe-trotting to merit that sort of fee.

"It's an Italian consortium and they want you to write a review of their newest villa-resort in San Vincenzo in Tuscany," he sighed again. "Private flight both ways, one night in one of their prima villas with hot and cold running attendants and then a two-page review with a full colour spread. You can even bring your own preferred photographer."

"Quarter of a mil for _one night and two pages?_ "

"One night and two pages," Milt confirmed, slowly. "And you were the one they wanted."

" _Jesus_ , Milt," Sarah sat on Mycroft's old bed with her phone pressed hard against her ear and felt overwhelmed. Nobody had _ever_ wanted to pay her that sort of money before, and certainly not for such a small brief. There _had_ to be something more to it. "There wasn't a request for a marriage or anything like that involved as well, was there?" she tried to joke but it fell flat before she'd even said the words.

"Quarter of a million pounds for one night and two pages plus photographs," Milt reiterated. "I haven't gone back to them with a turn-down yet, but I guess I probably should by tomorrow."

" _Don't_ ," Sarah spoke before she realised.

"Don't turn them down?" Milt was uncertain. "I thought you said you didn't want anything offshore this close to the baby's delivery?" he sounded uncomfortable.

"It's not even the money," Sarah murmured. "But I have to know what it is they want me to do that's worth so much for what seems so little. I really need to know, even if I do turn the commission down. _I need to know_ , _Milt_."

"I, _ah_ , I actually took a look at the consortium's financials, out of interest," Milt sounded deliberately disinterested. "They have a very, _very_ serious line of credit and are represented by some heavy hitters in the banking world," he said. "Swiss accounts and Panamanian accountants, but they certainly have the money to pay you."

"Are they crooks?" Sarah felt a morbid twinge of fascination.

"Hard to say," Milt sounded as if he were shrugging. "There's always a possibility. San Vincenzo is only a couple of hours by ferry to Corsica."

 _Corsica? The Mafia?_

"I rather like Corsica, Milt," Sarah felt her curiosity rising again. "And you know how much I love Italy."

"What about the baby, Sarah?" Milt was beginning to sound concerned. "You made it perfectly clear to me that you weren't keen on travelling overseas again before the baby came."

"Italy is so close, it hardly counts as overseas," Sarah was building a picture of San Vincenzo in her mind; she'd once driven to Grosseto from Pisa and had actually gone straight through the place on the E80. A small coastal hamlet of no more than a few thousand locals. Beautiful long beaches and lots and lots of trees. Great views. "A one-way flight would be no more than three hours and a private jet might be even quicker. Was that all the information they gave you? Nothing else?"

"Not a sausage," Sarah imagined Milt shaking his head. "I have a number if you'd like to call them yourself and discuss it; there might be something really big that they left off or that I simply misunderstood. You want to call them?"

"I think I must, Milt," Sarah was still struggling with the idea of such a monster fee. "Can you text me the details and I'll get in touch, if only to find out what it is and tell them I can't do it."

"Well, okay, but I really think you need to consider what you're doing here," there was a touch of nervousness in his voice.

Her phone pinged softly as a text arrived. Swiftly farewelling her agent, Sarah read the details of the text, though there weren't all that many. Signor Lucien Fesch with a Pisa number was waiting to hear from Sarah at her convenience to discuss a professional matter, the broad details of which had already been given to her agent.

Tapping a thumbnail against her teeth several times, she thought very hard about what she was going to do although, if she were being truthful, that had been decided the second Milt had told her of the enormous fee for such a small job. The agony of not knowing exactly what it was would drive her insane. Reading the number from the text again, Sarah pressed the relevant buttons and waited for the call to be connected.

In London, Milton Ajax had a mild panic attack as he recalled the visit he'd received several weeks before from the tall, severe looking man in the good suit with the long umbrella. Chewing his bottom lip, he lifted his phone and dialled the number on a plain white card that bore only the name _Mycroft Holmes_.


	12. Twelve

There was only an hour's time-difference between London and Pisa, so three o'clock in the afternoon in the Kentish countryside meant four o'clock in the Pisarean metropolis. Sarah had already phoned Signor Fesch's number, only to speak with the man's executive assistant who suggested a meeting via telepresence software. As she had several such programs already loaded on her laptop, Sarah was pleased. She had always preferred to see the people with whom she was discussing a project; misunderstandings were so much easier to spot and clear up that way.

The appointed hour arrived and upon clicking the meeting link, Sarah was transported into the luxury environs of what appeared to be an extremely upmarket villa, with pale gold silk and gossamer curtains in the background against a gloriously decorated gold-flecked wall. To one side of the wall there was some tasteful modern artwork and part of what looked like an antique candelabra. There was a definite suggestion of resort _chic_ and yet the décor was just on the right side of vulgar display. It was rich, but not tacky.

" _Signorina Lawrence_ ," the man's voice was liquid velvet. It was a perfect match for his strikingly masculine features and superbly besuited frame. Lucien Fesch, an extraordinarily handsome man, was currently sitting or rather, lounging, on what was a beautifully upholstered pale suede couch in front of the sumptuous backdrop. Sarah smiled politely but with some restraint, as if she was perfectly accustomed to entertaining magnificent Italian film-stars on her laptop in the middle of a late-October afternoon.

"Signor Fesch," she kept her gaze on the small dot of her laptop camera rather than on the image on the screen. He would see her eyes first and understand that while she appreciated a little bling as much as the next person, this was about business, not about making an impression. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me at such short notice. I spoke with my agent only this morning about your proposal and felt I needed to confirm a few things before discussions proceeded."

"But, of course," Fesch shrugged, languid, elegant and supremely unconcerned. "Ask me anything you wish," he smiled, revealing a set of teeth almost too perfect and white to be natural. "This is the whole purpose of our meeting, no?" his dark eyes focused more sharply on the image on his own computer screen and he suddenly leaned forward, crossing his wrists on one knee, his every movement leonine and powerful. Sarah could almost smell the testosterone.

She smiled, lifting her eyebrows. "My agent advises me you have proposed what appears to be a relatively small and simple project and yet are offering an exceedingly high fee," she said, calmly. "Therefore I cannot help but wonder if there is something not yet disclosed in your proposal that you prefer remain concealed and out of any contractual negotiations."

On the screen, Fesch leaned further forward, a dark frown dramatically creasing his features, yet before he could speak; Sarah lifted a hand, forestalling him.

"I say this only to let you know I am a professional and expect nothing more than my professional due, signor," she added. "And I have been approached in the past by certain parties who imagine that high fees guarantee high endorsement, when this is clearly not the case," she paused. "Forgive my candour, but I felt we needed to begin with transparency."

Inhaling slowly, Fesch nodded economically before relaxing his shoulders and sitting back in the sofa. "I was told you know your job," he said in a very business-like voice, much of his initial languor vanished. In fact there was something almost odd about the way his personality seeemed to flatten. "Is there Italian in your family?" he looked down his nose at her a little. "You speak like a _consiglio_."

The idea of being a legal counsel amused her and she laughed, but at least they had moved beyond the opening stages of the discussion.

"I have no Italian blood, though I confess a deep and abiding love for your beautiful country, Signor Fesch," she smiled, tucking her loose hair behind an ear. "I simply prefer to have everything on the table so that all parties are aware of expectations."

His dark eyes smiling back at her from the screen, he nodded in apparent understanding. "Then you will take the commission if I can explain the reason for such a high fee?"

"I may decide not to take the commission regardless of your explanation," Sarah stared at the camera again. "The sum of money you spoke of with my agent is significant indeed, but my reputation is worth much, much more to me," she smiled again then looked serious. "However, I am prepared to listen."

" _Hmmm_ ," Lucien Fesch narrowed his eyes and stared back across the miles. "You don't strike me as the kind of woman who will listen for very long if she dislikes what she hears, but I will try," he added, nodding and sitting forward once more.

Back in Mycroft's old room, Sarah folded her arms and leaned on the edge of the bureau, watching the laptop screen and waiting for the man's explanation. If nothing else, Fesch was very pleasing to the eye. Ten years ago, she might have been on the next flight to Pisa to do the job for free as long as he had been there to squire her around. He really was very attractive.

"It is very simple," Fesch reached forward to pull a long thin cigarette from an ornate gold and crystal box on the coffee table in front of him. Lighting it and inhaling briefly, he smiled and lifted both hands in the air in an entirely European gesture. "We want everyone in the world to know that we can afford the best," he said spreading his arms wide. "We have the best designers and the best architects and builders here at _La Casa di Sabbia_ ; we have hired the greatest and most sought-after interior decorators, located the most luxurious fittings and the finest appointments that can be created today. We are providing a six-star experience in order to bring the wealthiest of tourists back to Tuscany from such destinations as Dubai and Hong Kong," he added. "The new private marina is being built with facilities and deep water moorage for the biggest yachts, and we have already created several new roads and local amenities for our guests who will mostly arrive by sea or air. We even have a small runway for private jets and our own helipad less than a kilometre from the hotel ..." Fesch paused for a breath, then smiled widely, showing teeth that must have paid to put the dentist's entire family through private school. "And now, we want you," he said finally. "The very best. And we are happy to pay whatever it costs to have you here to do your best work."

"And you are genuinely prepared to pay me a quarter of a million pounds for a twenty-four hour stay at your new hotel and a two-page spread in a glossy magazine?" Sarah frowned a little, lowering her eyebrows. "That is excessive no matter who you contract for the job."

Fesch laughed, slapping his hands down on his knees. "You are too honest for your own good, signorina," he grinned. "But there is a perfectly ordinary reason for such excess, as well."

"Which is?" Sarah tilted her head.

"Money breeds money," Lucien Fesch shrugged expressively. "Once the enormity of your fee gets out, and I am fairly certain that it will," he smiled slyly, " then everyone will know that we are truly determined to spare no expense in anything to do with our enterprise; that we will do whatever it takes to make a name and a reputation for our establishment. They will not be able to resist their curiosity. And once they are here, they will stay and once they have stayed, they will return," he nibbled the inside of his lip reflectively. "So you, my dear and most valuable Signorina Lawrence, are the lynchpin of our plan and we will pay you what we thing such a critical service is worth to us. Nor will it do your own reputation any harm, I think."

"So it's not only the quality of my work that you want, but the fact of my international professional standing," Sarah mused as she thought. It sounded mad enough to be possible, and Milt had already confirmed they were serious financial players.

"When would you want me to visit La Casa di Sabbia?" she asked thoughtfully. "I have a certain very specific deadline arriving in a matter of weeks after which I will be taking a break from writing."

"How does next week sound to you?" Fesch smiled again, the victorious smile that says the owner has got what was wanted. "The hotel is almost completely finished; the rooms are nearly ready for guests and we have our own private jet we can place at your disposal," he smiled again, shrewdly. "This time next week, you could be significantly more wealthy and sipping cocktails on a beach overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. And we already have booked space for the piece and associated photographs in a dozen high-profile international magazines which would lift your professional profile to _Numero Uno_ in the world," he shrugged noncommittally. "Personally, I do not see a down side."

 _And yet I'm still not sure I trust you, handsome man with such very white teeth_ , Sarah nipped her bottom lip. "May I think about it until tomorrow?" she raised her eyebrows. "I need to check with my agent about delaying two other contracts I'm currently working on; such a change in my schedule needs to be viable or I simple cannot do it," she smiled at the camera. "I'll confirm my availability or otherwise by close of business tomorrow."

The handsome man with the superstar smile hesitated fractionally, before tilting his head in acquiescence. "But of course, signorina," the smile was back at full wattage. "I am sure you will make the best decision. I will wait to hear from you tomorrow."

His hand stretched towards the keyboard of his laptop and the screen went dead.

Sarah sat back, a deeply thoughtful expression on her face. No matter how fabulous La Casa di Sabbia ... _House of Sand, how romantic_ ... might be, and no matter how much cash Fesch's consortium were throwing around, she had a sense of something being out of place; some vague intuition that this could not be all that it was being made to seem. She sighed; she'd need to speak with Milton in any case and she lifted her phone.

"Hi Milt, I've just spoken with a Signor Lucien Fesch and the commission does appear to be exactly what it says on the tin," she said. "He's suggesting I fly over next week."

"Are you really sure you want to go?" Milton Ajax had no desire for his star writer to take on unwarranted additional work, no matter how much the fee, if it was going to cause her any level of stress. "You still have those two pieces for _Cosmo_ and _Better Homes_ ," he added. "Or have you already finished those?"

"The _Cosmo_ airline review is all but done; I've got perhaps another hour's work before I'm completely polished, and the other is written to first draft stage," she paused, thinking. "If I were to take on the San Vincenzo gig and left on Wednesday, I could probably have both pieces done before I go. I'm being a bit lazy not having them finished already, actually."

"I think being seven months pregnant gives you a little leeway on your deadlines if you need it," Milt sounded as if he was smiling. "But what was your overall feeling about Fesch's proposal?"

Sarah sighed again, making no effort to disguise the sound from her agent. "I don't know Milt," she said slowly. "It really does sound far too good to be true; small job, ginormous fee. I can't help but think there _has_ to be more to it. Lucien Fesch is a stunningly handsome man which might have clouded my thinking for a moment, but ... I dunno. I can't pretend I'm not intrigued, though it's really not the money; I'm wondering what it could possibly be that he wants me to do. My gut instinct is to turn it down, but you have a good way of clarifying my thinking, so what do you reckon? Is it a goer or should I walk away from this one?"

There was silence for several seconds at the other end of the conversation.

"You pay me fifteen percent of your royalties and sales to represent your interests and make sure your work goes to the best places, so from a purely financial point of view, I should be telling you to grab this opportunity with both hands," Milt paused. "But I have to say I actually agree with your instincts in this instance; there's something just too perfect about the set-up and the fee is simply too huge to be anything other than some sort of buy-off," he added. "And no matter how massive the fee, you don't actually need the money and I think you don't really need to extra hassle either. I say turn it down, but you, of course, must make the final call. It's your life. Just tell me what you want to do, or what you want me to do."

Sarah nodded to herself. _Yes._ It was her life, but she wasn't an idiot. "I'll have a bit of a think and get back to you with my final decision," she said, relieved that Milt had echoed her thinking. "I'm happy to speak with Fesch myself, so you don't need to do anything at this point." Sarah felt better: it was always a good idea to have a chat with Milt when she was unsure about a job. She'd wait until the morning then ring Fesch back with a _no_.

After the call and feeling somehow lighter now she'd pretty much made up her mind, Sarah decided she might as well finish off the airline review she'd written for _Cosmopolitan_ ; a candid inspection of long-haul flights. Once this piece had been polished to her satisfaction, she'd send it off to Milt and he could handle it from there.

Pulling up the all-but finished document and the file of accompanying digitised photographs, she spent a solid half-hour tweaking her phrasing and playing around with her adjectives until the final elegant arrangement was near complete.

Her phone rang. Perhaps it was Milt back with more information.

"Sarah Lawrence," she answered, her eyes still fixed on the screen of writing in front of her, flitting from sentence to sentence.

"I'm not interrupting anything, I trust?" Mycroft's smooth voice echoed all the way from London.

"Not really," Sarah smiled, her eyes still focused on her writing as she changed _precise_ to _defined_. "I'm just finishing up one of my last remaining commissions; this one's for _Cosmo_ and I'll be glad to put it to bed," she murmured as _limited_ became _finite_.

"I'm calling about something of a delicate matter," even to Sarah's untrained ear, his tone was a little awkward. It was that as much as his words that focused her attention.

"What's the problem?" she asked, turning away from the laptop to stare at the daylight beyond the window as she listened. "You sound ... unlike you. What is it?"

A slight pause followed her question.

"I understand you've been approached to accept a commission in Italy," he spoke quietly. "I realise this matter does not concern me directly, but I would very much prefer that you do not take it."

It took Sarah several seconds to work out what was happening. Milt had clearly done what he thought he was still expected to do and phoned the man who had demanded he be kept informed of her actions and whereabouts. And now, Mycroft was taking it upon himself to act on this ill-gotten information and try to persuade her from taking the job, so he must have heard from Milt at least a couple of hours ago that she was considering the commission. Milt had clearly not yet had time to relay the conversation they'd just concluded; Mycroft didn't yet know she was on the verge of turning the commission down. Her eyes started to narrow.

"Why not?" to an uninformed bystander, her tone might have been considered slightly strained.

"I don't think you should go," Mycroft continued in a perfectly reasonable manner. "You are heading into your eighth month of pregnancy and flying is clearly not the best thing for either you or the baby. You are also already overtired and stressed, thus taking on even more work when you are working to clear earlier commitments away, makes little sense."

Clamping her back teeth together, Sarah hesitated a moment before speaking. Even though this baby was entirely her idea, she'd knowingly invited the Holmes family into her life, so she could hardly be surprised that Mycroft, whose world appeared to be all about control in one way or another, would want some control over his unborn child's welfare. He could not really be faulted for that. _However_ , she had given him no control over _herself_ and he needed to get off her back.

"I see," her voice came out even quieter than his. "And you got all this from Milton Ajax, I presume? You neglected to tell the man he was no longer required to do your spying for you? And now you have the nerve to lecture me on what I should or should not do?"

"This isn't a lecture, nor is it intended to be."

"Funny; sounds quite a lot like a lecture from here," Sarah felt her face grow warm. "Sounds _exactly_ like you want me to reconsider any plan I might have to live my life the way I choose to live it, especially if it deviates from what you consider to be _sensible_."

"Sarah, there is little point in becoming angry about this. I have been spending rather more time than usual out of my office these days and I simply neglected to speak with your agent. He naturally assumed I still wanted ... updates. I have since advised him otherwise and apologised for placing him in a difficult position in your confidence. However, this does not change the fact that I now know you are considering an Italian commission and it would be remiss of me not to articulate my concerns at this juncture."

 _Articulate his concerns?_ Jesus wept. Sarah took a deep breath.

"And you don't feel this is in any way overstepping your boundaries in our relationship?" Sarah's pulse beat a little harder, a little faster. "Such as it is."

"I had come to believe we had at least achieved some form of accord," Mycroft spoke slowly, almost as if he were able to see the growing expression of annoyance on her face. "I'm aware you have not always been comfortable with my ... methods but I felt we had moved beyond that."

"Until you decide you don't like what I'm doing and hop on the phone straight away to let me know that I should stop whatever it is," Sarah heard her words becoming a little more clipped and emphasised. "It's really none of your business what I do, Mycroft and _my_ preference is that you leave me make up my _own_ mind, thank you."

There was the faintest suggestion of a long inhalation at the other end of the conversation. "Anything might happen at this late stage of your pregnancy," his words were unmistakably stiff. "What happens if there's a problem and you are miles from medical assistance? Both you and the child would be at risk; going to Italy now, especially when there's no great financial need, seems imprudent at the very least."

Taking another deep breath, Sarah repressed the desire to simply end the call and bury her phone under the pillow; that would be infantile and in any case, would do little good. However, neither was she prepared to allow anyone to dictate her movements or schedule. It simply was not going to work. That she had already decided not to go to Tuscany made very little difference.

"Mycroft," she began softly, determined to stay on the unruffled side of irritation. "I appreciate your concern for the baby, but there are two things you need to understand right now. The first is that I would never knowingly do anything to jeopardise this child of mine and secondly, whatever I choose to do is _my_ decision alone and I will not be dictated to, even with the best of intent," she added. "Thank you for calling and sharing your opinion, but that's all it can be; an opinion. I will make up my own mind on the matter as I see fit."

There was another pause.

"I really think you need to reconsider," there was a new note of coolness in his words. "I would be concerned for the both of you if you were actually to make the trip," he said. "Unless you really are doing it for the money."

The skin on her face prickled.

"What was that?" Sarah felt her voice hush to a near-whisper. She wasn't sure she could keep a lid on anything louder. "You're saying what, exactly?"

"That the temptation of such a large sum has turned your head and you're are unable to consider the higher realities of the situation," Mycroft's voice was distinctly chilly.

The sudden heat in her face burned in the cooler air of the bedroom. Any desire she might have had to keep a lid on her temper vanished like mist in a hot sun.

"How _dare_ you," she almost hissed the words. "How dare you take the moral high ground with me when you know nothing of the situation other than what you _imagine_ you know," she snapped. "My decisions are _mine_ to make and are absolutely bloody _nothing_ to do with _you_. Your brother warned me about you and I see now that he was quite right. I am going to do whatever it is I decide, so leave me alone, Mycroft; I have no desire to talk to you again on this or any other subject."

Stabbing a finger at the phone to end the conversation, Sarah turned the thing off and threw it onto the bed while she crossed the hall to the bathroom. A cool damp facecloth went some way to cooling her burning face, but it did nothing to quench the smouldering resentment that had her chest heaving for breath.

After a few minutes, she felt able to relax the tension of her shoulders as she leaned both hands on the sink and checked her face in the mirror. Foolish or not, sensible or not, it was now very clear what she was going to do.

###

"Italy?" Lillian paused in making the tea. "When?"

"In a few days, most likely," Sarah sat at the kitchen table once more. "Though I'm only going over there for a single day, I have to check with my doctor to see whether I can fly at this point or not. If she says _yes_ , then there's a private plane I can use and the journey will only take me a couple of hours or so. If she says _no_ , then I'll hop on the Eurostar to Paris and change to a sleeper train for the trip down to Pisa. Either way, the whole thing should be over and done with inside three or four days at the very most."

"And you're sure you can manage such a long trip when you're ..." Bill gestured to her bulging front.

Sarah laughed in genuine amusement. "I may not have been pregnant before, but I've trekked through Nepalese mountains in raging thunderstorms, dodged salt-water crocodiles in a tin boat in the top end of Australia and managed to live with scorpions in the sub-Sahara," she grinned, "so I'm fairly comfortable with the idea of tackling a six-star resort hotel in Tuscany," she sighed and looked patient. "I also speak fluent Italian, I know the country really well and have several very good friends who live there. I'm going to be within a phone call's distance of medical attention should I need it and if push _absolutely_ comes to shove, I can always hire a car and driver to bring me back to London," she smiled at the serious expression on both their faces. "It's not going to be a problem and besides, I won't be going by myself."

"Oh," Lillian smiled and looked pleased and relieved. "Is Mykie going with you? That would be nice for you both."

Sarah kept a slightly forced smile on her face. "No, this is nothing to do with Mycroft and in fact, we've just had a row about it because he doesn't want me to go. I'll hopefully be taking Robeson Muir with me to the hotel. He's a photographer, a really good one and we've worked with on a number of occasions when I've gone to look at something very glitzy," Sarah relaxed a little and let a genuine smile curve her mouth. "He's an enormously tall Australian and looks like he could wrestle a water buffalo but he's the sweetest man, really he is."

"And you've had a falling-out with Mycroft because he doesn't want you to go?" Lillian raised her eyebrows and looked a little worried. "I'm sure he meant well."

"And I'm sure he means well too," Sarah accepted the offered cup of tea. "But he simply has to realise that this is my livelihood and what I'm very good at doing. There's no way I'm going to change my life simply because I'm pregnant," she shook her head. "I am self-sufficient, Lillian and it has to be this way."

The Holmes matriarch said nothing but it was clear she wasn't entirely convinced. Sarah sighed inwardly. "If this is going to be a problem, between us, then you need to tell me," she said softly. "I can't pretend to be what I'm not ... not for any reason."

Pushing his tea to one side, Bill who had been listening in silence thus far, leaned forward and placed his long-fingered hand over hers. "There is no such thing as a problem that this family cannot solve," he said, patting the back of Sarah's hand. "Of course it's going to take a few ups and downs, but we've learned with Sherlock that there's not much point getting upset about the small things when it's the really big things that need sorting," he looked kind. "It'll do Mycroft a bit of good to told where he gets off, for once," there was a hint of a grin. "It was the same when both the boys decided to move to London; we knew then there would be no point in trying to change their minds, so we just let them go. Much rather that, than a dreadful fight that would mean they never come to visit, isn't that right, Mother?"

"Yes, but I am a bit worried. Mykie doesn't usually make a song and dance about things unless there's a reason," she still looked doubtful.

"Mycroft thinks I'm only doing it for the fee," Sarah sounded thoughtful as she sipped her tea.

"Good money, is it?" Bill arched an eyebrow.

Nodding slowly, Sarah replaced her cup in the saucer. "Quarter of a million pounds," she said, leaning her elbow on the table top and pressing the pad of her thumb against her chin as she stared off into the mid-distance.

There was a very loud _clink_ as Lillian missed her saucer entirely and nearly tipped her cup onto the floor. A look of shocked disbelief sat on her face.

"Quarter of a million pounds ... _for one day's job?_ "

"Don't say anything, but I'd already decided to turn the job down even before Mycroft tried to interfere," Sarah shrugged. "But now I've changed my mind and I'm going to take it."

"Isn't that a little ... _ah_ ..." Bill floundered for the right expression.

"Childish?" Sarah met his gaze. "Quite possibly, but I realise that Mycroft is never going to stop supervising me until he gets it through his head I have no need of his or anyone else's oversight; nor will I tolerate it," she sat up and looked resigned. "Therefore, I shall take this job, do it properly and then come home, at which point I'll make it as clear as I possibly can to your son that the child I'm carrying does not give him any rights over me at all. I hope he can accept that," she frowned a little, staring down at her cup and saucer.

"Or what?" Lillian sounded uneasy. "That was an ultimatum if ever I heard one."

"Or I'll have nothing more to do with him," Sarah looked up at the older woman. "He's not my keeper, Lillian."

There was silence around the table.

"That's a hellish amount of money," Bill reached over for the pot and poured himself more tea. "You must be damn good at what you do."

Unable to avoid a small grin, Sarah wiggled her eyebrows. "I am pretty good, yes," she acknowledged. "Though by the time I pay my taxes and then my agent's fees and then all the other costs, I'll probably end up with a little over the hundred thousand," she wrinkled her nose. "But even so, it is an amazing fee and the reason I wasn't going to take it. Even though it feels a bit on the dodgy side, to be honest."

"Then you can't _possibly_ go," Lillian reached over to lay a hand on Sarah's arm, concerned.

"That's pretty much what your son said too," Sarah sighed. "Which is why, now that he's made such a damn fuss about it, that I feel I cannot possibly _not_ go. I can always just leave if they do something I'm not keen on," she looked pensive. "They asked me to go over next week, but if Robeson's free, then we can go as soon as I get the all-clear from my obstetrician and I've already left a message for her."

"I still don't like it," Lillian folded her arms and pursed her mouth. "I agree that Mycroft takes a lot on himself and that he's no right to assume you'll automatically do what he wants, but if you're in the slightest way worried about the arrangement ..."

"You could always come with me, if you'd like," Sarah lifted her eyebrows at the sudden idea. "Why not? It's all expenses paid and only for a couple of days. Why don't you come over to Italy with me and you can keep an eye on anything that looks even remotely odd. This way, you'll stop worrying, Mycroft will _have_ to get off my back and I'll have someone to make sure I eat properly and rest when I get tired. What do you say? Is your passport up to date?"

Lillian sat frozen in the wooden chair as the idea washed over her. _No._ She couldn't possibly _..._ _it was a completely mad idea_ ... she _couldn't_ , not at such short notice ... there were things she needed to do _here_ ... but if Sarah was determined to go and if there was even the smallest possibility of a problem ... Folding her hands together on the kitchen table, Lillian inhaled deeply and held the breath for several seconds.

"If you would like me to go with you, then of course I will," she said, her peripheral vision catching Bill's widening eyes and astonished smile. "If you are set on going to Italy and Mykie's worried about the whole thing, then if I'm with you, he'll know that I won't let you do anything silly; not that you would anyway as you're a very sensible girl," she paused, looking across the table at her silent and now widely-grinning husband. "Yes; I'll happily go with you, my dear. Count me in."

Relaxing against the back of the wooden chair, Sarah felt her own grin arrive. The idea to ask Lillian to trek across the Med was definitely a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, but none the less brilliant for that. And on top of everything else, it might even be fun.

"Fantastic," she leaned her arms on the table and met the same clear pale blue eyes that Sherlock had focused on her only a few days before. "You won't need to pack much and Tuscany at this time of the year is usually cool but not yet too cold, though it might rain," Sarah shrugged. "In fact, it probably will rain, but the universities are in full swing, which means all the shops and services will be open, so it doesn't really matter. How are you with flying?"

"I quite enjoy travelling by 'plane," Lillian poured herself more tea. "Though it's been a while since Daddy and I last flew; Madeira, wasn't it?" she frowned at Bill who nodded. "I think my passport is still current," she hesitated, looking for the details in her mind's eye. Replacing her cup in its saucer with another sharp _clink_ , she stood suddenly, darting towards the passageway. "I'd best check."

Waiting until his wife was out of earshot, Bill leaned forward, his eyebrows arched and amusement on his face. "You know she's going to simply adore fussing over everything, don't you?" he asked. "Where do you think our eldest got his Freudian fixation for detail? Mind you," he paused thoughtfully, leaning back relaxed and seemingly unfazed by the turn of events. "I'm equally sure my wife will be your best ally when it comes to keeping a lid on some of Mycroft's more overpowering behaviour," he looked philosophical. "I dearly love my son, but he can be a royal pain in the rear at times."

Being able to talk, even obliquely, about the argument she'd had with Mycroft made things feel a little less oppressive and Sarah felt some of her inner tension melt away.

"I know his intentions are good," she said. "But he simply goes too far and every time I think we might have found a balance, off he goes in the deep end again."

Bill looked rueful. "You have to understand that nobody, least of all Mycroft, ever expected him to have a family of any description," he said. "Then you come along with your wonderful surprise of a child, which we then discover is going to be a boy ..." he shrugged. "I'm rather proud my son hasn't completely lost the plot; you've given him something far more precious than the crown jewels, you see, so you can imagine why he'd be erring towards caution with everything, can't you?"

And Sarah could. She really could.

"But he's such a pedantic _arse_ at times," she flattened her mouth, exhaling sharply.

Bill laughed loudly. "And now you sound _exactly_ like Sherlock," he folded his arms across his chest and grinned some more. "Welcome to the Holmes family, my dear."

The sound of rapid footsteps heralded Lillian's return.

"Got it," she smiled, waving the gold-embossed, dark red booklet in her fingers. "It doesn't expire yet for years, so having it with me on a quick trip to Italy will be fine," she sat back in her chair, beaming and excited. "When do you want to go?"

"Assuming I get the all-clear from my obstetrician and then assuming that Robeson Muir is available at short notice and that the Italian end of the gig is as organised as they claim to be, then how about the day after tomorrow?"

"Two days?" Lillian looked tentative. "Can we get tickets for planes and things organised in time?"

Laughing, Sarah shook her head. "In the travel business, time is everything," she said. "There's a private jet at our disposal and a perfectly serviceable little airport not ten miles away at Biggin Hill," she grinned. "We don't need tickets and things; we only need to pack a bag and we can go."

Looking between Sarah and her husband, Lillian wasn't sure which one looked more smug. About to sip her tea, she realised her cup was empty and in any case, she didn't want any more tea.

Standing, she headed for the sherry.


	13. Thirteen

The mobile phone, currently perched on a pile of day-old newspapers beside a house brick and a small glass beaker two-thirds full of a virulent green gel, rang.

Ignored and unanswered, it rang again and then a third time.

"That's your phone ringing, Sherlock," John's raised voice carried from the bathroom where he was having a slow and refreshingly thorough shave. "Might be Lestrade," he shouted again as he frothed foamy white lather onto his face. "Could be about the Mancuso case."

Draped along the sofa thinking about the money-laundering case that had already ruined John's accident-free driving record after a brief tussle with a Ferrari in a Kentish ditch, Sherlock stretched out a long arm over his head to fumble for the phone before the call went to voicemail. Catching it on the fourth and final ring. The caller was carefully and quite deliberately unidentified, therefore the identity was obvious.

"I'm busy," he muttered grumpily, examining a teetering pile of newspapers John had left by the front door to take down to the blue recycling bin in the morning. At what precise angle and velocity would the pile need to be hit by the phone in his hand in order for it to surrender to gravity? A tempting experiment to say the least. "So whatever you might want to ask me, I suggest you don't bother."

"I need a favour, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone was business-like and unmoved by his sibling's provocative rudeness. "It concerns Ms Lawrence and it has to be unofficial."

Unimpressed and not remotely intrigued, Sherlock threw an unfocused scowl at the far wall of the room. "If you can't use official options, then get one or more of your faceless minions to go and do whatever it is you are about to ask me," he sighed. "Really, Mycroft, enabling the woman to fall pregnant in the first place was a vast error of judgement on your part; I see no reason why I should be drawn into the churning morass of your questionable morality at this late stage of the game."

"I can't use any of my people ..." there was an unusual hesitation in his brother's voice and Sherlock's eyes suddenly became very focused indeed. He swung his feet to the floor.

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, there is a new development in the situation and it's not ... it's not something I feel I can reasonably entrust to someone beyond the family."

The younger Holmes narrowed his eyes in thought. If it were only Mycroft himself with the problem, then he wouldn't have bothered calling. That his brother didn't want this – whatever it was – to go beyond the confines of the Holmes clan suggested that somebody else apart from Sarah Lawrence was involved, somebody close to home. Not any distant cousin, either; Mycroft would shed no tears over anyone not intimately connected with the family, which left only two possibilities, or, more realistically, this could only be ... he rolled his eyes. "What has mother done now?" he groaned, flopping back down onto the sofa and staring mournfully up at the fine cracks in the plaster ceiling. "If she's attempting to stage a coup to have you and La Lawrence married before the baby's born, then be advised I shall not only skirt the sidelines in this instance, but avoid them entirely in a determined ignoring of the both of you," he said. "And if she's hoping to bring Sarah in as some kind of _inamorata_ for you short of actual marriage, then tell mother it smacks of procurement and I will cheerfully have nothing to do with anyone surnamed Holmes until the child turns eighteen."

The sound of a long and slowly indrawn breath filled the conversational space carrying a host of unspoken words all on its own. "Against my considered recommendation, Sarah has accepted a commission in Tuscany," Mycroft sounded as if he were doing his best to moderate his tone. "I suggested it would be better if she declined the job at this late stage of her pregnancy and a certain amount of ... discussion ensued during which Sarah made it very clear she neither welcomed my communication nor would she seek any further advice from me."

Sherlock lay on his back as a grin shaped his mouth out of its default sulk. "Sarah Lawrence told you to go to hell, did she?" he snorted with malicious amusement. "Had a row with the little woman and now you need someone to go in and smooth ruffled feathers? Hardly my thing, brother dear; I'm somewhat at a loss to understand why you called."

There was another small pause. Mycroft cleared his throat. "I've very recently been informed that the cartel behind Sarah's commission has been underwritten by the enormously wealthy Pisani family, led by the youngest brother, Ottavio Pisani who has most recently been seen in the company of one Soren _Mancuso_."

 _Soren Mancuso?_ A name almost at the very top of the chain in the current messy business which had half of Interpol up in arms disagreeing with the other half on how, exactly, to bring a ravaging money-laundering scheme, currently plundering its way across Europe, to a halt. Sherlock wouldn't even have become involved had it not been for the unexplained nude corpse of an Italian baker spread-eagled across the front steps of Mansion House, official residence of the London Lord Mayor.

 _Soren Mancuso._ A violent, villainous criminal, with links to some of the wealthiest families in Italy. His entanglements in organised crime were more than could probably ever be properly reckoned and now his favourite bodyguard presently languished at Her Majesty's pleasure following John's amazing driving and the valiant sacrifice of his no-claims bonus on a B-road near Swanley.

"This still doesn't explain why I would want to become involved in your little spat with Sarah Lawrence," Sherlock was already thinking ahead to how this new data might be added to the current whirl of information in his mind. There had to be something he could do with this.

"Sarah isn't going to Italy alone," Mycroft spoke heavily. "She's taking Mummy with her."

"So stop them," Sherlock's eyes widened and his scowl returned. "Have them arrested at Heathrow or at the Eurostar terminal. Do _something_. You cannot possibly allow our mother to get anywhere near the Mancuso family; they already know of my involvement in the curtailing of their activities. If she were to be identified as a relation of _mine_ ..."

There was yet another awkward pause at the far end of the call. "It's problematic," Mycroft sounded genuinely troubled, an event sufficiently unique as to have Sherlock wondering what else might be at stake. "I'd prefer not to become further estranged from Ms Lawrence and since the commission calls only for the one day to be spent at the Tuscany coast ..." Mycroft sounded as if he were considering a great many things. "You _know_ what it's like trying to persuade Mummy from anything upon which she's set her heart ... remember the velvet suit she had made for your violin recital?"

Wincing at the mere mention of the velvet suit debacle, Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Which, no doubt, brings you _finally_ to the favour you want from me," he took a deep breath. "Then for god's sake, will you _please_ spit it out."

And Mycroft told his younger brother precisely what needed to be done.

By the time John left the bathroom, patting at his freshly smoothed chin with a clean towel, Sherlock was sitting with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"And?"

Inhaling briefly, Sherlock turned, a growing smile suddenly brightening his face. "Tea?"

"Oh god. What now?" John sat slowly down on the arm of his chair allowing the towel to drop in his lap as his eyes followed the tall, almost predatory form of his flatmate into the kitchen. Nothing good ever came of tea with a Holmes.

###

"I really have no idea what one should wear on occasions such as these," Lillian held two near-identical scarves up for Sarah's approval. "What on earth should I pack?"

The fact that they were only planning to be staying in Tuscany for the one night and then fly back the following day seemed not to have quite sunk in; Lillian had worked herself up into something of a flap. "I don't want to let you down, dear," she looked so worried that Sarah laughed.

"I'm taking my laptop, a clean pair of knickers, a toothbrush, a comb and a small tube of face cream I can also use as hand lotion," she said, smiling at the older woman's anxious face and relenting. "Lillian, this is supposed to be _fun_. We're going to a six-star hotel, which means they will probably have far more there than we could ever _think_ of bringing with us, and even if they didn't, we're not going to be there long enough to miss anything we leave behind," she added, amused. "If you _really_ want to pack something nice, then I suggest you take something you can change into for dinner, which I am sure they'll want to lavish on us, and then a comfortable outfit for the brief trip back," she paused. "I'm going to be busy working and I always wear pretty much the same gear which is jeans and a shirt and a jacket," Sarah paused again, looking down at the gravid swell of her belly. "Admittedly, this time I shall have to wear jeans and a small bell-tent, but the principle remains," she met Lillian's bright blue eyes; darker than Sherlock's by a smidgen and yet not quite as dark as her eldest son. Mycroft's eyes were far more like ...

Jolting her thoughts away from the most infuriating man she'd met in a very long time, Sarah held up a hand. "Travelling tips," she said, holding up her index finger. "Pack trousers in a neutral shade; they don't show the dirt and you can wear them during the day or at night." A second finger joined the first. "Pack only two or three colours for everything, so the whole lot is interchangeable." A third finger. "Take a neutral pair of flat shoes and a darker pair of low heels." The little finger joined its mates. "Take a cardigan and a jacket rather than a heavy coat and finally," Sarah used her thumb as a final marker. "A really good mid-rose lipstick," she finished. "I've been around the world with less."

Lillian looked across at the capacious and almost-full suitcase lying open on her bed. "You think I might have gone overboard a little?"

Sarah couldn't help it. She'd never had a mother she could have these kind of talks with; Lillian was just fabulous. Standing, she put her arms around the older woman. "You take whatever you damn well please," she said. "At least it'll give you a choice in your outfits to knock those handsome Italian men off their feet," she grinned. "Just don't start flirting too much or I may end up coming back by myself."

Lillian's eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped slightly. "I would _never_ ," she protested as Sarah laughed.

"I warn you now; Signor Lucien Fesch is an absolute stunning specimen of a man and very pleasing to the eye, so if you fancy chatting anyone up, I suggest you try him. Or maybe you can be my chaperone and make sure he doesn't try chatting me up, not that he would with me in this state," Sarah shrugged and sat on the end of the bed gently patting her bump and looking fatalistic.

"My dear girl," Lillian sat beside her. "In case it has somehow escaped your notice, though how that might be I couldn't say, but you are the most stunning creature yourself," the Holmes matriarch took the younger woman's hand between her own. "Not only are you as elegant as a model and with a model's height, but everything about you is simply beautiful; your eyes, your hair ... and it's entirely true what the books say when they talk about the glow of pregnancy," Lillian smiled. "You look like an illuminated glass window, with brightness shining out from the inside," she said. "It's no wonder Mycroft couldn't take his eyes off you the other night when he came down with those flowers," she smiled even more, remembering. "I quite understand that there's nothing between the two of you except the baby, but ..." she shrugged. "You'd make a very handsome couple is all I'll say."

Mycroft couldn't take his eyes off her? More like he couldn't take his eyes off the large lump she was carrying up front these days. It was plain to see what Mycroft wanted.

"Your son is very keen on being connected to this child," Sarah murmured. "It has nothing to do with me in the slightest," she shook her head. "Mycroft is thrilled to be continuing the family line," she added, smiling at Lillian's puzzled face. "I'm merely the means to an end; even Sherlock could see that," she shrugged again. "Now come on and let's get you packed. We have to be at the airport at the crack of dawn tomorrow."

Standing, Lillian frowned sideways at the tall woman beside her. She knew both her sons well and she had known Mycroft longest of the two. There was no way his expression the other night had been anything other than smitten, baby or not. _Still_ , she sighed. Both he and Sarah were grown adults and should probably be left to make up their own minds about things.

"I've never been in a private jet before," Lillian folded one of the scarves and tucked it into the corner of her case. "What do we do about customs and things?"

Leaning against the doorframe and folding her arms, Sarah lifted her eyebrows. "Either the flight will have pre-cleared us with Customs, or there'll be an official there to check our passports before we get on the plane," she said. "If it's just a pilot, they don't usually bother checking anything; after all, the pilot's already been cleared to fly. Either way, it should take us almost no time at all before we're up in the sky," she checked her wristwatch. "I'm going to have a shower and an early night so I'll be nice and fresh in the morning. The jet's scheduled for landing at seven-thirty tomorrow, so we'll need to be in the car by seven; that okay with you?"

"It all sounds very thrilling," Lillian grinned suddenly. "I haven't done anything this impulsive in years."

"You get used to it after a while," Sarah headed out of the room. "You'd be amazed how quickly the excitement becomes just another job. ' _Night_ , Lillian."

"'Night, dear," Lillian looked at her packed case; she really didn't need all this stuff. Making a face, she began to pull things out. It was really such a shame that Mycroft hadn't met Sarah in a more conventional way, not that there was anything terribly conventional about the way her eldest did anything these days, but _still_.

###

The Cessna Citation was already waiting for them as the first rays of light began to gleam over the North Downs and the surrounding fields. Lillian had taken her advice and was very smartly dressed in a caramel-coloured jacket and long pleated skirt with elegant but comfortable shoes to match. Grabbing her own coat and leaving the bright blue Mazda in a secure spot between hangars, Sarah allowed the jet's co-pilot to take the two small bags –Lillian had seen sense – on board, as they waited to meet the Captain.

A crisply-uniformed woman, replete in black jacket with four gold bands on her cuffs and epaulets crossed the short span of tarmac.

"Good morning," she smiled cheerfully as they introduced themselves and shook hands, the lilt of Dublin in her vowels as she stopped and looked down at Sarah's expanding front. "I'm Neve Moore, your Captain, and I do hope you've a document for me saying you're fit to fly," she said, raising her eyebrows in question.

"Thought you might want something like that," Sarah grinned back, handing over a letter Anni Mandal had emailed down the previous day. "As long as you have no plans on looping any loops or achieving escape velocity, my doctor tells me all is well."

"Excellent, Ms Lawrence," Captain Moore nodded, pleased. "If you'll just give your passports to my co-pilot, he'll make sure Customs have your details as we're preparing to taxi out. Have you flown on a small jet before?"

"More times than I can remember," Sarah rested her had on Lillian's very smartly dressed shoulder. "But my Executive Assistant here hasn't and I'm sure Lillian would like to know the procedure."

Explaining that the rules of air-safety were a little different on a private jet, the softly-spoken Irishwoman soon had Lillian in a comfy chair, belted in and smiling.

"It's only a short hop in one of these, really," she said to Sarah, looking up at the sleek white jet with undisguised pleasure. "The Cessna's top cruising speed is over six-hundred mph, but given your delicate condition," she smiled and winked, "I'll keep it down to around the five-hundred mark, which means I'll have you on the ground in San Vincenzo in time for a late breakfast. I assume that will meet your expectations? It was made very clear to me that you're a keenly anticipated guest at Casa di Sabbia."

"Sounds great," Sarah nodded as the young and thus far silent co-pilot as he returned the passports. "Are we all good to go?"

"If you'd take your seats and secure your seatbelts, Paulo will be around with light refreshments as soon as we reach cruising height. I hope you both have a pleasant flight, but please let me know if there's anything I can do to make either of you more comfortable on this short trip." Offering a professional nod, Captain Moore headed forward through a door into the small flight deck.

Lounging in one of the deep cream leather swivel chairs, Lillian didn't know what to look at first, but settled on swapping her gaze through windows on both sides of the small aircraft before grinning in delighted excitement at Sarah. "This is such fun," she beamed. "Daddy will be so envious. I haven't done anything as exciting since I got married," she laughed and shook her head, remembering. "One minute I was a Stuart and then I was a Holmes; it was all a bit of a fantasy, just like this seems to be."

The twin Pratt and Whitney engines whined into life and in seconds they were rolling smoothly down a narrow runway. Lifting off the ground with scarcely a tremor, the plane curved in a broad circle as it gained height, before heading in a south-easterly direction which Sarah knew would have them flying over most of northern France and on, down to Milan. If they weren't too high, she'd make sure to point out their locations to Lillian as the sights passed beneath them.

Passing through a low band of cloud, the golden rays of bright sunshine flooded through the oval window ports just as the young co-pilot emerged from the cockpit into the miniscule yet fully-fitted galley. The heavenly scent of fresh coffee filled the entire cabin, as did the delicious fragrance of freshly-baked croissants and warmed apricot _confit_. There was the soft _hiss_ of an opening champagne bottle.

"Is this how you travel all the time?" Lillian asked in hushed voice as she was waited on hand and foot with fresh strawberries and a glass of vintage bubbly. "No wonder you enjoy your work so much."

"Sometime like this, yes," Sarah shook her head at the fizzy, but accepted a bowl of the luscious and out-of-season _fraises de bois_. "But more often, I'm crammed into the back of a rattling old taxi with a rucksack, a local guide and, on at least one occasion, a small goat."

"Sounds exciting at least."

"Yeah," Sarah stretched out her long legs and nodded as she sipped a wickedly aromatic coffee. "Though I find I'm happier to get home now that I used to be," she said. "These days, it's less about finding strange, new places, and more about counting the hours until I can get back to writing in peace and quiet," she added. "Maybe I've done all the travelling I need to do for a while ... maybe I really do need to think about doing something else. The idea about writing a cookbook wasn't half bad, actually."

"You wouldn't get paid this sort of money for writing recipes," Lillian drank some champagne and peered out the nearest window at the clouds around them. "Though you did say that money wasn't an issue for you."

"Not any more, though to be honest, I don't get this mad sort of fee for _anything_ , which is why I was already planning not to take the commission when Mycroft started jumping up and down. I would have been insane not to take advantage of people's willingness to pay me for doing what I loved doing in the beginning," she shrugged. "Perhaps it's time to find something else that I can love. Travelling just isn't as romantic as it used to be."

They seemed barely to have reached a nice level height when a calm Irish voice advised that they would be beginning their descent into San Vincenzo momentarily and to please ensure their belts were done up properly. Almost as soon as the words were spoken, there was a slight but distinctly downwards tilt to the skyline.

The landing, less than ten minutes later was entirely uneventful and the aircraft taxied to a smooth halt at the end of a dainty and obviously new and purpose-built runway. Beyond the windows, waiting impressively in the pale morning sunshine of the Tuscan coast was a very grand cream Bentley convertible, the uniformed driver waiting patiently beside the rear passage door. Next to the Bentley was a much less exotic but no less grand Mercedes; all gleaming black paintwork and polished chrome.

"Ready?" helping Lillian unbuckle, Sarah felt the old excitement begin to kick in. This would be the last off-shore job she'd be taking for the foreseeable future and it was also likely to be the highest-ever paying gig of her career, so she might as well enjoy the hell out of it while she could. Slinging a long baggy jacket around her shoulders, she exited through the now-opened door.

The cool breeze was scented with salt and wild rosemary, instantly recalling her earlier visits to this part of the world. Though the day was not warm, given the late time of the year, neither was it unfriendly to the visitor. Sarah looked around her and saw how cleverly the small runway had been integrated into the mass of green Cyprus trees and other conifers. Their evergreen nature meant that no matter the season, the hotel itself would be shielded by a natural barrier. It was a thoughtful gesture. Pretty, too.

As soon as she stepped from the Cessna's stairs onto the ground, the passenger door of the Mercedes opened, allowing none other than the magnificent Lucien Fesch to step out, sliding a smile onto his face and sunglasses into the breast pocket of his business suit. He lifted both arms in typical Italian style.

" _Welcome!_ Welcome to Casa di Sabbia! How wonderful it is that you were able to ..."

A gust of air blew Sarah's jacket wide open, revealing her manifestly pregnant state. Fesch's eyes snapped to hers, surprised and clearly intrigued.

"You will bring us all very great luck, _Signora_ Lawrence, blessing us with the spirit of your _bambino_. You will pardon my earlier mistake; I had not known you were married. _Mie scuse_."

"Not at all, Signor Fesch," Sarah smiled just as brightly back. "And you made no mistake; this _bambino_ is all my responsibility. Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary."

Their host's smile didn't waver an iota for the few seconds it took him to digest the notion.

"And this is?" Fesch turned his gleaming white teeth towards Sarah's older, silent companion.

"This is my Executive Assistant, Lillian ... _Stuart_ ," Sarah thought Lillian might appreciate the private joke. "Lillian's here to make sure I cover all the bases without overdoing things and is most keen to explore this stylish addition to the San Vincenzo area. On the flight over, Lillian remarked how excited she was to see something new in the region," Sarah caught Lillian's gaze and winked fractionally.

"Delighted to finally meet you, Signor Fesch," swiftly taking the hint, Lillian extended her hand. "Sarah has spoken of little else but the Casa di Sabbia," she said with a definite touch of the regal. "I am very pleased to be able to accompany her here today."

Managing not to roll her eyes and give the game away, Sarah waited as Fesch, a good Italian boy clearly brought up to respect his mother, deferred gently to the older woman, leading her to the open convertible and seeing the driver was properly assisting her entry. He turned back to Sarah, an amused look on his face. "You bring your Mama?" he asked _sotto voce_.

Shaking her head, Sarah smiled back, her eyes at the exact height as the dark brown gaze of her host. _God_. He really was a scrumptious-looking man. "Not my mother and quite honestly here to manage me," she said. "Possibly also able to add more perspective in the short time we're going to be around. You're paying me a great deal of money to do my very best work; I don't want to leave any stone unturned."

Fesch nodded in his economical way and tweaked an eyebrow. "Signora Stuart is also your chaperone, eh?"

The idea of Lillian as anyone's chaperone made Sarah grin. "It's entirely possible," she laughed. "Has my photographer arrived here yet? I'd agreed with him that we'd both be here this morning as I want to set up the photo shots by noon to make the most of what light we have."

"Ah _yes_ ," Lucien Fesch nodded again, remembering. "Signor Muir left a message for you to say his connecting flight from Brazil had been delayed at Lisbon, but that he anticipated being here no later than eleven this morning and as it is now ..." he checked a very expensive Swiss watch on his wrist, "not yet nine-thirty, may I suggest that you and your manager find your suite and then we all meet back in the Waterfall Room for coffee at, say, ten-thirty? By the time we have finished, Signor Muir may already be among us."

"Sounds perfect," Sarah smiled, clutching her coat closer as the breeze stiffened. Fesch came to her aid, unaffectedly lifting her hair out of the way and pulling the garment back onto her shoulders.

"You are perfect," he grinned. "Such a beautiful woman," Fesch lifted his arms as before, gesturing to the surrounding countryside. "In such a beautiful place," he sighed theatrically as he held the Bentley's door open for her. "You are made for each other."

"We'll meet again at ten-thirty, then," Sarah couldn't help but smile at the man's flamboyant enthusiasm. As soon as the heavy door clicked shut, the driver rolled the car into gear and moved off at a relatively stately pace towards a vaguely visible structure, mostly hidden by the thick stand of Mediterranean pencil pines.

As soon as they were safely away, Lillian pressed closer in the back seat of the Bentley, quickly tying a light headscarf around her hair as the Tuscan breeze was strengthened by the speed of the open car. "I feel like I'm here incognito," she whispered. "But thank you for giving me such an impressive job title, even if it is only for the day."

"I'm sure you'll more than meet the job's expectations," Sarah grinned. "And I really would value your opinion of things; I can't see everything in such a short space of time, so consider yourself my official backup spy."

"That chap back there seemed a little too friendly for my liking," Lillian stroked the fine leather of the car seat, admiring the quality of everything around her. "But they're certainly not sparing anything to make a good impression, are they?"

"Lucien Fesch and his cartel want to make this whole place into a new playground for billionaires," Sarah watched with interest as the Bentley rounded the slight hill dividing the area of the landing strip from the hotel proper. "They can't really afford to make a bad impression."

Clad entirely in gleaming natural polished sandstone, La Casa di Sabbia rose from amid a desert of gently sloping sand dunes from which it presumably took its name. Of no more than three or four stories in height at its tallest, the long undulating profile of the building stretching around the inner curve of the beach was one of irregular rooftops; of sympathetically clustered apartments and galleries, sheltered patios or private, screened terraces and small courtyards. None of the higher windows seemed to overlook any of the screened courtyards directly. None of the wide sheltered balconies were left open to public gaze. In some odd way, it was reminiscent of Marrakesh; where the dark and narrow alleyways of the souk hid fragrant, fountain-cooled courtyards, each resplendent in hand painted tiles, orange trees and endless tiny cups of dark coffee.

Sarah nodded absently. Even at a distance, the place looked fascinating. Give it a few years to allow the weather to round some of the sharp new edges away and it would truly be a lovely place. In her mind's eye, she could already see many of the walls draped in the green veil of grape vines and clouds of white jasmine. This new house of sand had good bones and a good feel. She nodded again; Lucien Fesch and his people were onto a winner.

"Oh, my goodness," Lillian's gasp of delighted surprise brought Sarah out of her reverie. "What a lovely place; and right on the beach with the ... is that a marina out in the bay?" Lillian was sitting bolt upright in her seat as far as the belt would permit, trying to see everything at the same time. Sarah smiled; she had felt the same excitement once.

The Bentley rose up a long curving sweep of road which had changed from the black tarmac of the landing strip to an entirely different colour, barely darker than the sandy dunes around it. The whole thing gave an effect of seamlessly blending in the new with the existing landscape. Drawing up into an open courtyard where a uniformed woman waited, Sarah and Lillian were assisted from the car while the driver collected and carried their bags inside.

One through the wide glass doors, Lillian gasped aloud. Looking up, she could see the wide an gently swaying branches of trees _growing through the building itself_. By some minor engineering miracle, either the hotel had been constructed around the existing mature trees already sheltering the beach from wind erosion, or the architects had cleverly constructed a building which was then able to be filled with mature trees. Either option was mindboggling. Sarah made a note to ask how it had been achieved.

"This is six-star living, Lillian," she murmured as they followed the uniformed woman, her pale sand dress almost the same colour of the polished walls and the deeply rich gold-and-faun carpets. "Be ready for a few surprises."

Entering a lift across a deserted but wondrously tiled atrium, in seconds they were on the floor above where the overall colour-scheme was of a much darker sand, almost mocha in tone, though the thick carpet was the same gold-patterned luxury it had been on the floor below. Pausing beside a set of double, full-height doors, their guide waved her had across a small light fitting in the wall and both doors swung silently open, revealing a suite of sumptuous extravagance, the most conspicuous evidence of which was the small indoor beach and pool that lay half in and half outside the great wall of glass which the uniformed woman was even now swinging open at the touch of metallic pad of which Sarah could see several scattered around the room.

There was a faint suggestion of heat rising from the pool and the small beach shimmered with it. Reaching over to test a theory, Sarah tweaked her eyebrows. Yup, the sand was heated. A most intriguing way to warm the room, not that the temperature was in any way uncomfortable.

Walking out beside the external half of the in-ground pool, Sarah realised she was standing on one of the secluded yet substantial balconies. A balcony with a pool? She smiled as she looked out at the view, a magnificent sweeping vista of the Mediterranean and the newly-built marina which already housed a few sleek white power yachts. The rich scent of the sea and the Cypress pines filed her head and she closed her eyes in pleasure.

"Sarah! Look!" Lillian's summons was one of amazement not shock and Sarah turned to see the older woman walking towards the far end of the room's open space, where a full-sized Grand Piano held court to one side of a sumptuous seating area; the delicate suede of the lounge fabric seeming very familiar. Hunting around for a few seconds, Sarah was totally unsurprised to see the gold-flecked walls behind long drapes of silk and diaphanous cream gauze. Everything around the place looked opulent and splendid.

"The signoras' private rooms are through here," the uniformed woman spoke at last, her soft accent declaring her a native of Pisa. Indicating the opposite end of the main room where several closed double doors denoted the sleeping quarters of this most lavish accommodation.

The first bedroom was swathed in faun linen and white silk, with beautiful and costly fittings of brushed gold and inlaid white ceramics. The walls were papered with linen fabric only a few shades paler than the bedding and curtains. It was a sophisticated room for sophisticated people used to the best things money could buy. By the way Lillian almost swooned in the doorway, Sarah knew she'd have to pick one of the other rooms for herself. Not that she minded; for one night, she'd sleep on the beach if she had to.

The next set of doors was a room of similar dimensions, but much more dramatic in colour and presence. Dark rainforest wood gleamed from underneath carefully thrown hand-knotted silken rugs where bronze and the glint of dull silver melded into the general gold and beige. The bed was enormous; she'd have no problem finding enough room to stretch out.

"I am to show you how to use the room security, Signora," the woman in the pale sand dress brought what looked like a very thin phone from her skirt pocket. Brushing across the surface of the screen, a host of icons became visible, each one responsible for different elements in the room. There was even a telepresence intranet within the hotel, where guests might conference call with other guests without leaving their own personal heated beach and pool. The small remote also acted as a location device, directing its user to any other part or room in the hotel complex. With the touch of a finger Sarah called up the way to the lounge where Fesch had suggested they all meet for coffee. It was all very elegant and clever, just the kind of thing that the rich and bored might enjoy.

The driver had already placed their bags on an ottoman at the bottom of each bed, in the correct rooms, too. Lucky guess.

"Robby Muir's going to adore this place," Sarah swivelled, taking in everything she could about the entire room, having almost enough data already to write her piece. "For a rough and ready Australian, he's a man who does enjoy indulging his hedonistic heart at times," she grinned. "He's going to love playing with all the toys."

A few seconds later, there was another muffled squeal of delight from Lillian. She'd found her bathroom.

###

Following the electronic guide in her hand, Sarah led a goggling Lillian along several decadently decorated passageways until the sound of falling water drew them along a huge mezzanine tiled in various shades of gold and natural polished sandstone. An eighty-foot waterfall fell into a deep blue pool framed by perfectly aligned rocks and bushes of the same wild rosemary that filled the region with its own special perfume.

There was a meeting area not far from the pool where several men were already seated and the aroma of wonderful Italian coffee filled the room.

"Showtime," Sarah walked with Lillian all the way down a winding staircase to the floor of the extraordinary Waterfall Room.

Lucien Fesch stood, arms raised and a pleased smile on his face. "What perfect timing," he grinned. "Signor Muir has just arrived this moment, come; join us for coffee."

Nodding and looking around for the big blond Aussie, Sarah felt her feet glue themselves to the floor as the only blond man present in the room stood and turned, his blue eyes about twelve inches lower than usual.

"G'day," John Watson smiled easily.


	14. Fourteen

_This had to be some sort of a joke, surely?_ But John Watson barely knew her, certainly not well enough to make this a joke situation. And Lucien Fesch had just introduced him as _Robeson Muir_ , her expected photographer when the only resemblance between the two men was one of blondness. So not a joke and certainly not an accident, which meant the man was here deliberately and for a non-joke reason. One did not play silly buggers with things when there was a quarter-of-a-million pounds in the wind. But where was the real Muir? And what was John Watson doing here pretending to be her photographer? How had he even got here? What the _hell_ was going on? At just that second, the baby kicked hard enough to bring a small gasp to her lips and she brought both hands across her front. The movement gave her a moment to think. Until she knew more, everyone needed to believe things were exactly as they should be. On the off-chance it was something serious, it might be wise to play along for the moment.

Dropping the hands from her front and blinking, realising she needed to say something, Sarah pasted a wide smile on her face, opening her arms for a hug she waited until the shorter man lifted his arms to gently grasp her shoulders, though she still wasn't sure what to say..

At her side, Lillian stopped short, an air of puzzlement in her voice and took the initiative away from anyone else. " _John?_ "

Shit.

"Hello, _John!_ " Sarah exclaimed without hesitation or pause. "It seems like _ages_ since we last had a gig together; I'm so pleased to be working with you again," she smiled, hugging the shorter man carefully before turning back to face Lillian who was standing, bewildered.

"Oh, Lillian," Sarah positioned herself so that the men seated on the gilded couches behind her could not possibly see their faces. "I forgot. You've not seen Johnny since he had his hair cut so short, have you?" she said, catching Lillian's eye with a rather obvious wink. "It took me back for a second too."

The older woman frowned for a moment until her gaze caught John's own wink. Her eyes widened considerably.

"John, you remember Lillian Stuart, my Executive Assistant, don't you?" Sarah smiled engagingly. "Though I know it's been at least a year since we've all been in the same room back in London," she added, stepping slightly to one side and pulling Lillian around with her so that the men behind them could really still only see John's face.

It was just as well, since Lillian looked as if she were about to make it obvious to everyone in the room that she had seen John Watson a lot more recently than last year and in any case, what on earth was he doing in San Vincenzo? But then, Mycroft and Sherlock had to have got their talent for dissimulating from _somewhere_.

Pausing as she absorbed the situation, Lillian gave a minute shrug. "My dear John," she stepped forward to rest her hands on his shoulders, her features schooled into a diplomatic greeting. "I almost didn't recognise you; you look as if you've been in the army. Been somewhere hot, have we?" Even though she might not have a clue as to the reason behind John's presence here, Lillian was not so slow on the uptake that she couldn't take a hint.

"Yeah," nodding, John's hand went to the back of his head to run fingers across the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "It is a bit different, hey? Felt it was time for a change and you're right; it was bloody hot up at the Top End," he paused, grinning. "You've made a few changes yourself, I see," his raised his eyebrows at Sarah, letting his gaze rest briefly on her unmistakable bump.

Lucien Fesch moved towards the little group, looking as confused as Lillian had been only moments earlier.

"I thought this was Robeson Muir, the Australian photographer you worked with on both the Argentine project and, more recently, on the Australian beach series?" he frowned, uncertain.

"And it is," Sarah patted John on his upper arm as she turned and walked towards the array of sofas with a small but growing frown between her eyes. "Why are you confused ... _oh_ ," she paused and grinned. "That we call him John?" her grin widened carefully. "It's his middle name. John's never liked the name 'Robeson', have you darling?" she turned the grin at the blond man before finding a comfortable corner on the nearest couch, Sarah lowered herself carefully down, just as Lillian took the nearest corner in the adjacent sofa.

"My mother liked it," John shrugged, the faintest Australian drawl in his vowels as he returned to the seat he'd occupied a few minutes earlier. A small aluminium suitcase sat at his feet. "It looks good in writing, but _nah_ ," he shook his head, leaning forward to collect his coffee cup. "Bit grand for me. I prefer _John_ and all me mates know it."

"Ah," Fesch nodded in understanding. There was no great mystery in that case. The British and the Australians and their strange thing with names. "Then I am delighted everyone is here so that I may finally introduce you to the principals in this wonderful project," Lucien walked around to stand behind a third gilded sofa in which sat two men, probably mid-thirties at most, both Mediterranean by their complexion and Italian by the expensive Fioravanti and Zegna suits that covered their backs. Both men stood to shake hands, both sets of eyes drawn momentarily to the obvious sign of Sarah's fertility as they retook their seats.

"Signor Ottavio Pisani, who represents one half of the financial backers of _La Casa di Sabbia_ , and Signor Matteo Mancuso, who is a representative for the other half," Fesch smiled brilliantly. "We are all very pleased to have such world-famous professionals working together with us in what will undoubtedly be the greatest tourism development to hit the Mediterranean in the last fifty years."

 _A little_ _excessive_ , Sarah thought, but this was Fesch's gig. Let him wallow if he wants. She looked at the two men seated opposite her and smiled. "Thank you for inviting us to your stunning hotel," she gestured around with her fingers. "I almost have enough to work with already," she added. "Everything we've seen so far has been fabulous; I just need to ensure I have the best images to accompany the things I plan to say," she turned to John and raised her eyebrows.

"Indeed, Signor Muir," the man Lucian had introduced as Matteo Mancuso nodded down at the silver case at John's feet. "I am something of a camera enthusiast myself," he spoke clearly but with a distinctive Italian accent. "Might I see the technology you have chosen for this project?"

"Sure," John grinned, leaning down to swing the small metal case up onto the massive coffee table in the middle of the seating area. "Nothing but the best," he murmured, dialling the lock coding into each of the three snap-catches that held the entire thing closed. "Have a look and tell my what you think."

Though Sarah knew she and John Watson were going to have a _very_ detailed chat about what exactly was going on the second they were alone, she wondered just how far the man could manage to go in order to carry off his impersonation of Robby Muir. So far, it had been mostly luck, but the second it got technical ... she bit her lower lip and waited. If Sherlock's associate couldn't maintain the persona he was attempting to create, then they'd all be for the high jump and that would be embarrassing if nothing else.

"Meet the world's first back-illuminated 35mm full-frame CMOS image sensor with 42.4 megapixels," John grinned widely. "She's a real beaut ... the α7R-Two has bloody amazing image resolution, sensitivity and speedy response," he smiled as widely as if he were bragging about his first-born. "The hybrid AF system has a really dense extra-wide focal plane and phase-detection coverage ... keeps a subject in sharp focus entirely throughout the frame you see, while the 5-axis image stabilization reduces blur which can sometimes affect handheld shots," he turned and winked broadly at Sara. "Not that the boss here has ever had any complaints about blurry images."

"I have read about this new Sony, but do not yet have one in my collection," Mancuso leaned over, wanting to touch but understanding it might not be the best thing to do.

John grinned again, levering the small black camera out of its snug foam bed. "Try it; you'll see what I mean," he offered, removing the cap. "The high resolution is even better because of the 4K movie recording featuring full pixel readout without pixel binning," he shrugged. "Expensive, but worth it in this business."

"And for stills?" Mancuso cradled the Sony like a baby.

"A classic of its generation," John gazed down fondly into the case as he carefully unwrapped a silk-bundled lump from its own foam nest. "Hasselblad 500, renowned for its excellent optics, sturdiness and reliability," John unwound the neck strap. "Even after all these years, I still think this is one of the best cameras ever made for interior shots," he paused, tapping the old device. "I've got some very famous houses and some very famous people in here," he nodded archly and looked smug.

Mancuso looked approving and smiled. The great Robeson Muir was everything he had expected. Lifting his eyebrows and turning to his colleague in mute approval, he smiled again. "Signor Muir sounds keen to begin practising his art," he said.

"And are you equally enthusiastic, Signora?" Ottavio Pisani turned his cool eyes in Sarah's direction, focusing once more on her bulging front. "I have heard many good things about you and you can tell by the fee we have offered for this commission, that we are taking the quality of your work very seriously. I am even more impressed that you could be persuaded to leave your home at a time when most women would be reluctant to travel at all."

"As I advised Signor Fesch," Sarah waved at him with the small cup of coffee Lucien had just poured for her, "My reputation is only as good as my work and I assure you that I am determined to give you the very best that I can, while I can," she smiled. "Is there anywhere particularly you'd like us to begin, or are we able to wander around the place and consider anything we think might provide good visuals?"

"Apart from the two penthouse apartments at the southern end of the hotel, you may wander around as you feel inclined," Pisani waved his hand regally and smiled. "A few of the suites are still in the final stages of preparation, but virtually everything else is ready for our early guests who we hope will be attending our inaugural Christmas Ball," he added. "It would be useful to have both images and text, or at least some of them, in time to send out to a rage of selected guests ... would that be possible?"

"Eminently possibly," Sarah nodded thoughtfully. "Given that your overall requirements are relatively minimal, I could probably have a draft to you by the end of next week," she paused, looking to John. "How about you, John?"

"Easy as," the blond man nodded readily, his entire body suggestive of relaxation and assurance. "I can probably give you several first cut sections of the video as well as some choice stills," he made a face. "Shouldn't be too hard."

"Excellent!" Matteo Mancuso grinned and sat back in the ornately upholstered sofa. "My father and my brother and his wife will be joining us for dinner; this area is very close to my family's heart as Papa spent a great deal of time here as a boy," he nodded, pleased. "I am sure he will be able to provide all sorts of details about the area if you wish it."

"That would be fantastic," Sarah smiled, getting to her feet. "But since we're only here for a very short time, I think John and I need to get moving; if you would excuse us, Signors?"

"Of course, of course," Mancuso turned to look at Lucien Fesch. "Is everything prepared?"

Nodding swiftly, Fesch handed Sarah and John each a slim folder. Inside was a map of the hotel and grounds, along with a document listing points of interest; specific views, water depth for the yachts, the average air temperature of San Vincenzo in June. There was also a DVD.

"The disk is burned with a variety of photographs taken during the construction of _La Casa di Sabbia_ ," Fesch smiled. "In case you wanted some less conventional information and images. Will Signora Stuart be accompanying you?"

Lifting her eyebrows and turning to look at Lillian, Sarah was about to suggest that they all stay together, but once again, Lillian beat her to it.

"I'll only be in Sarah's way at this stage," Lillian sounded completely at ease and unconcerned. "However, it may be that I am able to offer insights that the younger eye might miss," she smiled knowingly around the small group. "If it is possible, I'd very much like to be given a tour of the facility as if I were a potential guest," she added. "I may even be able to offer some fresh ideas on things your older patrons might appreciate."

"If you're sure, Ms _Stuart_ ," even with the slight emphasis on the name, John's smile never wavered, though Sarah thought his tone was a fraction strained. "And we'll be around somewhere if you need either of us," he added.

"Of course, dear," Lillian stood, smoothing down the fine fabric of her skirt. "Perhaps we could meet up for a late lunch?" she turned to meet Sarah's eyes. "Don't forget to eat," she admonished. "I know how busy you get."

Unable to restrain her grin, Sarah nodded in agreement. Mycroft's mother was apparently brilliant at this ... whatever this was ... and she really did need to get John alone somewhere very soon so that she could find out what in _hell's_ name was going on and what had happened to the real Robby Muir.

Almost immediately, the party split up. Mancuso and Pisani disappeared through an ornate and now closed door. Lucien Fesch escorted Lillian to the beach front aspect of the large meeting area, through a set of enormous windows opening towards the nearby sea. He was already calling her 'Lillian' and seemed quite under the spell of her absolute Britishness. One of the servitors took a few moments to advise Sarah and John where a buffet lunch would be set up from twelve-thirty onwards; they could easily find their way from wherever they were simply by using the nifty little location device Sarah had used to locate the Waterfall Room. Seconds later, John had both cameras in his hands and he and Sarah were walking back towards the airstrip side of the hotel.

It was only when they were manifestly alone and there was nobody else within potential hearing distance, that Sara paused, looking out to the beach where she pointed, as if showing John something specific.

" _What the bloody hell is going on?_ " she snapped, moving the pointed arm and gesturing around as if she were asking a question about the view. "Just nod and look as if we're agreeing on something; I don't know if the security cameras are live yet, but the little buggers are everywhere."

"Really?" John smiled genially and nodded, looking around casually as if he were admiring the artistically sand-blown sheets of stone that clad the inner walls of this part of the building. "I hadn't actually noticed."

"Without looking as if you're looking, can you see the polished stone panels scattered about three-quarter's of the way up the walls, the ones with the inlaid gold circles in them? In the middle of some circles is a tiny dark dot," Sarah smiled again, bending down to feel the glorious carpet with her fingers. "They're everywhere. No wonder this place is so massively expensive; the electronic surveillance alone must have cost a fortune."

"Yeah, got one," John smiled for any watchers and nodded. "I've not been here long enough to notice, but now you mention it ..." he paused, turning to face the window and lifting the Sony up to his eye as if focusing on the exterior view. "What made you spot them?

"I've seen enough hotels and enough hotel security systems to check them automatically," Sarah stood and followed John's gaze out through the window. "It's a bit like counting the number of lifeboats on a ship even before you step on board," she laughed for the cameras. "There's surveillance all over the public areas and probably in the private suites too ... so one of the first things I find myself asking is why so much security?" Pausing, Sarah looped her arm through John's and urged his to walk with her towards the nearest lift. "And I shall consider this question in depth while you explain, with incredible and very convincing detail, what you're doing here and where my real photographer is," she smiled down at the shorter blond man, though there was an edge of anger in her eyes. "I don't take kindly to having my livelihood buggered up by anyone without a bloody good reason, so you'd better start talking," she compressed her mouth. "And let's at least _look_ as if we know what we're doing," she said, lifting the hotel's small portable location device as if she were selecting a place to begin work. They headed toward the nearest lift. "And where did you get all that guff about the cameras?" she demanded. "You actually sounded as if you knew what you were talking about. Do you?"

"Anthea," John said, as if that covered all possible concerns which, in a way, it did. Sarah remembered the dark-haired woman's camera-work in Moscow; she definitely knew her photography. "Plus I played around with a few different cameras while I was over in Afghanistan," he paused, remembering. "Sometimes, there wasn't an awful lot to do except sit around and wait," he added, dropping her arm so she could enter the lift as it opened.

The lift carriage seemed to be covered in the ubiquitous gold dots and thus the discussion on the brief trip was carefully professional. John waxed lyrical about the quality of the light at this time of year for the entire thirty seconds.

Stepping out into a corridor on the top floor, Sarah noted the colour-scheme up here was different yet again, the ambient tone more tawny than sand. There was also a deeper quality of yellow-gold to the carefully laid carpet, like glowing lion pelt.

"The Penthouse suites must be up here," she murmured looking around. "We can go anywhere except the southern end, which," Sarah lifted a finger and rotated from one side to the other and back, "is down that way," she pointed at the far end of the passageway. "So let's find a nice wide and exceptionally private balcony up this end, shall we?"

Sweeping her hand across the small light fitting as she'd seen the uniformed woman do earlier, the nearest door opened to her touch and they both entered a room that was more African savanna than Tuscany beach. The dramatic and eye-catching decor was lush, gorgeous and quite, quite over the top.

"Jesus wept," John breathed as he walked deeper into the room. "This looks like some kind of Edwardian hunting palace," his gaze took in the masterly African wall art, the vibrant rugs of thickly woven gold silk, the striking ebony wood carvings. "I bet there's a big four-poster bed in one of the rooms with a great big white mosquito net on it," he turned to stare out of the huge window as Sarah brushed her hand over a small metal panel.

Almost instantly, the wall of glass started to slide back into itself, allowing them to walk out to the front of the simply enormous balcony, already equipped with several sprawling day beds, each one covered by a hand-woven grass awning. Huge stone pots of fishtail palms hugged the corners, their wide green leaves sheltered and glossy in the warm suntrap. A small water feature trickled down the rough sandy wall into a giant earthenware jar, recirculating forever. _Perfect_.

"Let's sit as close as we can to the front to enjoy the scenery, shall we?" Sarah smiled tightly, before sinking down onto the side of the bed nearest the edge of the balcony itself. There was nothing but a frameless glass barrier along the edge of the terrace between them and the sandy ground three stories below.

Joining her on the other side of the day-bed, John raised his Sony once more for the sake of appearances. As soon as they were both more or less shielded by the grass awning, Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "This had better be an amazingly good story," she glared at the man beside her. "Or I am going to be more upset about this than you could possibly imagine. This is my job and my reputation you're messing about with here."

John wasted no time. "The Mancuso family are organised crime," he whispered. "It was one of their muscle boys who came at me and Sherlock in the Ferrari not far from the Holmes' farmhouse in Kent. The Mancuso mob already know Sherlock's name and who he is," the words were almost hissed. "If they find out who Lillian is ..." he paused, oddly unwilling to tempt fate by being more specific.

 _Lillian might be in danger?_

" _What?_ " Sarah nearly yelled, remembering the potential surveillance just in time as she swivelled to meet John's tense gaze at point-blank range. "Sherlock let me bring his mother to a place where she might be a target for mobsters?" she looked incredulous. "How could he _do_ that?"

"Don't shoot the messenger," John scowled back, irritated. "It's those sodding mental brothers; Sherlock's here too, in case you were wondering."

"He is? _Where?_ " Sarah wondered if this was some awful joke.

"Along the beach a bit, in San Vincenzo. Mycroft let me have one of these," he added, turning his head and pointing to his left ear inside of which Sarah could only just make out a tiny, clear plastic insert. A hearing aid?

"Radio," John went back to whispering. "Morse code and voice," he said. "Sherlock has one too; he can be here within ten minutes if needed."

 _Mycroft was involved as well?_

"Mycroft knew about this and he still let me bring Lillian here into possible danger?" Sarah closed her eyes and groaned silently. This could not be. What had started out as a straightforward in-and-out dream job was rapidly turning into a nightmare. "Why would he do something so unbelievably _dim?_ "

Saying nothing, John looked down at the back of his fingers before inhaling briefly and returning to meet her eyes. He still said nothing. Her mind spinning, Sarah finally realised what it was he wasn't saying.

"Because of _me?_ " she inhaled hard. "Because I told him to go to hell and he didn't want to force me not to go?"

John remained silent but gave her a look from beneath his eyebrows. He nodded.

" _Oh fuck, fuck, fuck_ ," Sarah covered her eyes with both hands. "How could he be so _stupid?_ Why didn't he _say_ something?"

Giving her another look that spoke volumes, John raised his eyebrows, very much put upon. "Because you put him in a no-win situation and because he is doing his damndest not to upset you, and therefore the baby, any more than he already has," John sighed, looking around to check they were still alone. "And because by the time he realised you'd planned to take Lillian with you, you were virtually on the plane. The only way to stop either of you from going at that point would have needed some pretty major blunt-force action involving police cars and flashing lights and possibly a helicopter which would have alerted the people at _this_ end that something very bad was happening and which would have pissed you off even more as well as upsetting his mother," he inhaled slowly. "Though Mycroft Holmes is an inordinate pain in the neck, he doesn't cry wolf unnecessarily," he tilted his head towards her and looked rueful. "Anyway, it's all water under the bridge; we need to get you both out of here as soon as possible," he added. "When's the plane coming back for you?"

"Not until tomorrow afternoon," Sarah bit her bottom lip. "But there's all the rest of today and then the dinner tonight; I'm not sure if Lillian can manage to playact that long."

"Never underestimate a Holmes," John gave a small grin. "Those boys get their love of the dramatic from at least one of their parents and I've always thought that Bill was the sensible one. What's with the Lillian 'Stuart' thing?"

"We've been playing a little game," Sarah tried to calm her racing pulse. "We've been introducing Lillian to everyone using her maiden name of _Stuart_ for a bit of a lark," she added. "So nobody knows she's even related to the Holmes family, at least," Sarah bit her lip again, "not yet. Though knowing her, it's entirely possible she might give the game away at any time. We have to _warn_ her, John."

"Absolutely we do," he nodded. "As long as she keeps playing along, she'll be fine, but we need to make sure she stays a Stuart for as long as she's here."

"I can't run in this state," Sarah laid a hand flat on her heavily rounded belly. "Can you go back with an excuse and ask her for something ..." she paused, digging in her jacket pocket. "This," she said, holding up a silver device, somewhat smaller than a mobile phone. "It's my Philip's voice recorder," she dropped it into his hand where John could easily hide it from view. "Ask to have a look in her bag for it, pull her to one side and then ask her if she'd bring me some food or something; tell her I'm hungry, at least she'll believe that without too much fuss." Sarah was really feeling uncomfortable and the tension in her neck was making her back ache again. A part of her mind wished she was back in Eynsford with Trish the masseuse. She heaved herself upright. "I'll wait for you here."

"Right," John nodded. "You sure you'll be okay by yourself?"

"Just go," she waved him off. "I'll hold the fort here and do my thing just in case any of those cameras are actually live."

John jogged out through the main living area door and the faint _ding_ of the lift a few seconds later suggested he was on his way.

Her stomach becoming a churning mass, Sarah made her way into the suite's bedrooms at the far end of the living area. Sure enough, in what seemed to be the master bedroom, there was a massive bed with a simply enormous white lacy mosquito net draping down from a central point on the ceiling. Curling her lip, Sarah saw the first design error. This net would barely keep a butterfly out, much less a mozzie; she'd had enough experience with nets of her own to know this for certain. It looked really attractive; light and airy, but there was no real practicality to it. Staring around, she could see the richness of the glitz and shimmer in the room, but it was beauty without purpose. Form without function, like an over-thick layer of cream in a cake. Her stomach heaved slightly. Checking her wristwatch, she saw it had only been a few minutes since John went to fetch Lillian. She closed her eyes and wondered if she dare sneak a lie-down on the bed ... but why not? She was here to check the place out, after all.

Feeling a bit like Goldilocks, she pulled the net to one side, sitting on the edge of the bed before laying down and resting her head on the covered pillows. The bed was a sublime experience and immediately her back started to relax. As the ache eased and she unwound, her stomach relented a little. Sarah sighed. She realised there was something she had to do and didn't relish the idea, but needs must and she might as well get it out of the way. Pulling the artistically-draped net down around the bed to provide the vaguest sense of privacy from any potential snooping cameras, she fished in her jacket pocket for her phone. Finding the number she needed, she activated a call and held the phone to her ear.

"Holmes," the one quietly-spoken word made her sigh again.

There was a brief pause. "Sarah?" Mycroft's tone was questioning, his voice so clear they might have been in the same room. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sarah closed her eyes and kept her voice very quiet. "I'm having a lie down because I've just found out you let me bring your mother into a potentially dangerous situation because you didn't want to upset me and because I let myself get too angry and insulted to ask you why you didn't want me to come here and because _you_ _didn't think to tell me_ ," she sucked in a breath.

"True, but are you _alright?_ "

"I'm fine," Sarah was surprised that he sounded so ... concerned. "And your mother is fine too. John's here and he's just told me off for being stupid not to listen to you when you tell me things, though in all fairness, you didn't actually tell me anything. I don't think forbidding something counts as telling."

"Then why are you lying down?" Mycroft's voice changed pitch slightly as if he'd just stood up.

"Because John's news worried me and because I feel as guilty as all get out about bringing your mother here now, because if anything happened to her I would _never_ forgive myself and now my back hurts and my tummy is a little queasy, is why," she almost whispered down the phone.

"Nothing is likely to happen to either of you," there was a quiet confidence in his words. "John's there, Sherlock's there and I have a few other resources in the area that may be brought in if necessary. The chance that either of you might be connected to my brother is minimal between now and tomorrow, as long as the rest of the Mancuso clan stay in Pisa."

Sarah felt her heart start to thud again and she closed her eyes. "Matteo Mancuso said his father and one of his brothers were travelling down to the hotel tonight to attend the dinner we're all supposed to be having at the hotel," she paused, thinking. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Did Mancuso say _which_ of his brothers would be attending the dinner?" Mycroft's tone sharpened.

"No, just that his father would be coming and one of his brothers who would also be bringing his wife."

"Matteo Mancuso has three older brothers," there was a slowly indrawn breath at the other end of the conversation. "Cesare, Lucio and Soren. _Soren_ Mancuso is the one I'd really prefer neither you or my mother had anything to do with," Mycroft paused. "He's an unpleasant man."

Sarah laid a hand over her eyes. "Do you think we should simply get out of here? I could think of a way ... maybe fake going into early labour or something."

"They'd only have you whisked off to the nearest hospital," Sarah could almost see Mycroft shaking his head. "No; any plan would need to be either above suspicion or beyond anyone's ability to uncover."

Sarah sighed out a long breath. "I don't know why you're telling me this now," she said softly. "But thank you. I wish you'd said these things the last time we spoke," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't take the time to let you," she hesitated. "Instead of going off the deep end, I should have done the sensible thing and asked you why you didn't want me to come to Italy. I know you're worried about the baby but you have to realise that I'd never do anything if I thought it had the smallest chance of risk ..."

"It's not ... just the child," if anything, Mycroft's voice was even quieter. "I didn't like the idea that you were going to put yourself in harm's way," he paused. "I'm telling you these things now because I realise my personal concerns for you and the baby overrode my usual objectivity. I don't make subjective errors of judgement as a rule, but clearly the situation has pushed my thinking beyond normal parameters and it seems that even I have certain vulnerabilities."

There was a careful pause.

"Is this your way of saying you were worried about me?" Sarah barely heard her own voice, so light and fragile were the words.

There was another pause.

"When this is over and you're back at the farmhouse, I think you and I need to discuss a few things like the adults we're expected to be," Mycroft exhaled slowly. "After all, a child's parents are supposed to be grown up about at least one or two things."

"Though we've not exactly gone about parenthood in the usual way, have we?" Sarah half-smiled up at the inside of the mosquito net.

"I'm sorry I attempted to bully you into doing what I wanted you to do," his words were edging towards inaudibility now. "I've never been a father before. I'm not used ... _I'm_ ... I confess to being somewhat anxious."

For some reason, the awkward, halting confession filled Sarah with a strange sensation. For someone like Mycroft, someone so much in control of everything in his life, so far beyond the minor problems of the madding crowd, for him to profess to 'certain vulnerabilities' had taken a bit of doing.

"I'm not anxious," She smiled up at the lacy white net above her. "I have you on my side now, don't I?"

There was yet a third pause.

"It would appear that you do." There was little hiding the new ease in Mycroft's words.

"Then I better get on with my job here so that I can bring your mother home quickly, without anyone getting into trouble or there being the slightest danger to anyone, hadn't I?"

"That would be nice," he was almost smiling now; she could hear it.

"And then we can have that conversation you mentioned," Sarah found her eyes focusing on the apex of the mosquito net, at the point where it was attached to the ceiling. There was a small gold circle up there.

"Like adults," he agreed. "We can be quite grown up if the mood takes us."

There was a tiny black dot in the centre of the circle.

"I'll hold you to that," Sarah breathed, as a thought clicked into place. "I must go."

"I'll talk to you soon, in that case." There was a soundless disconnect and Sarah was alone in the gorgeous glittering bedroom adorned with who knew how many spying cameras. She had never seen so many in an hotel in her entire career and certainly never any in a bedroom, let alone over the top of a bed. There was something very funny going on here.

Just what _was_ the Casa di Sabbia?


	15. Fifteen

"Hello, John, dear," Lillian had an expensive-looking shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders as she stood by the open phalanx of glass doors leading out onto the unsullied beach before them. As John approached, she had been staring out across the lightly ruffled waves stretching along the shore. There had been a distant expression on her face that Sherlock sometimes had, those occasional moments when his eyes registered things that were neither visible or known. "That was quick. Or did you forget something?" Lillian half-turned from the briny view, a smile on her face.

She was also alone. Apparently, her Italian guide, the one who had introduced himself as Lucien Fesch, was off somewhere, dealing with some other part of his job. Whatever his job actually was. John hadn't liked the man from the off; there was something just a little bit too smooth and sleek about the entirely too handsome Signor Fesch.

"Sarah asked me to come and get her voice recorder," he answered cordially and with an expansive openness that would hopefully convince anyone watching them at this present moment. "She said she'd dropped it in your bag and forgotten about it."

Lillian frowned. "I don't think she did," she said, reaching for the tan leather bag at her elbow. Opening it with a _click_ , she rummaged inside. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," John laid a gentle hand on the older woman's upper arm, guiding her towards the open windows, as if seeking a better light. "Here," he paused. "Let me have a look."

Lifting her head to look more closely at the blond man, Lillian hesitated. This wasn't the kind of thing John did as a rule, but then, this wasn't any every day sort of situation, was it? "Is there something you want to tell me, John?" she spoke softly, hardly moving her mouth.

Smiling as he took her bag in both his hands to have a look inside, John nodded fractionally. "Can we step outside, do you think?" he asked, just as quietly before raising his voice again. "I can't see a thing in here ... what do you women _keep_ in these swags in any case?" his Australian twang was loud and clear. Leading her out into the sunny afternoon, John was able to reach down into the bag's depths, only to remove his hand with a victorious grin. "Right at the bottom," he said, brandishing the small silver device Sarah had handed him not ten minutes before.

Turning, he took Lillian's arm in his as they both faced towards the sea. "Let's get a better perspective of the building from the water's edge, shall we?" Helping her down the vaguely rumpled sandy steps to the beach proper, in less than a minute they were well away from the wall of the hotel and, unless there was some sort of listening device that could be hidden in the fine sand around their feet, they were also away from eavesdroppers.

Lifting the Sony on its neck strap, John went through a series of set-up shots, all the while speaking in a low undertone.

"The people running this place are involved in organised crime," he paused, changing his stance a little. "Mycroft wants me to get you and Sarah away from here as soon as possible," he muttered as he stared at different points on the undulating rooftop. "Sherlock's here, just down the beach and can be with us in minutes if there's any trouble," he continued in a soft monotone. "Mycroft has eyes on us as well, apparently, though I'm not entirely sure how," he added, lifting a hand up to gesture at the top point of the hotel as if discussing the elevation or rooftop profile. "Whatever happens, nobody can be allowed to find out you're any relation to the Holmes family," he said firmly. "So stick with Stuart at all costs, okay?"

Nodding as she turned to stare aimlessly out across the flat blue horizon of sea. "Is this to do with one of Sherlock's criminal cases?" she asked, her expression mildly horrified. "Has Sarah been caught up in something fishy? They did agree to pay her a very great deal of money for her work, you know."

"These people have almost unlimited access to money," John muttered, holding the camera in front of his face. He didn't want to risk there being any lip-readers in the Mancuso employ. "I have a feeling that Mycroft's lady-friend might have been sucked into this as a high-priced smokescreen."

"Smokescreen?" Lillian's was confused, then gradually understanding. "Oh," she said. "I see. Poor Sarah."

"Sarah was onto them long before I was," John gestured again at the long building curving around the beach. "There's an amazing amount of surveillance gear all over the place inside the hotel," he smiled brightly and nodded again, as if they were having an agreeable conversation. "She spotted the cameras almost as soon as the pair of you walked in, which is why we're out here and not in there," he pointed to the enormous vista of glass through which they'd exited the building.

"She must be so upset," Lillian turned to gaze out across the flat expanse of water. "But even before we left home, she said she felt there was something odd about this whole arrangement," the Holmes matriarch was cross on Sarah's behalf, but shrugged. "Seems she was correct."

"And we have to get the both of you out of here as soon as we can," John dropped the camera and turned to watch the small grey waves lap up on the smooth sand-shore. "Sherlock is just itching to swoop in and land the Mancuso mob and as for Mycroft ..." he looked rueful. "I don't think I'm overstating the situation when I say that Mycroft is more than usually uptight," he flashed a grin. "I don't think he realised just how much all this has been getting to him."

"But if we try and leave earlier than planned, won't something be suspected?" Lillian sounded wary. "Won't that be even more dangerous than simply carrying on and braving things through?"

"Possibly," John shrugged. "There's risk either way. It probably depends on just how long your sons can bear to wait for the shit to ... ah, for the hammer to fall."

Lillian raised here eyebrows and gave him an old-fashioned look. "I wasn't born yesterday, John," she said. "I'm not having Sarah and the baby put in danger just because of me," Lillian sounded quite put out. "As long as they don't know that we know they're a bad lot, then there's no problem, correct?"

 _So this was where Sherlock got it from._

"You can't seriously be thinking of staying?" John's eyebrows reached up to his hairline. "Mycroft will have a meltdown."

"My sons are perfectly capable of handling whatever comes their way, Doctor Watson," there was a faint smugness in her tone. "As am I. But Sarah is a different situation entirely and I won't have that girl endangered just because of me, no," she shook her head in a most determined fashion. "And apart from anything else, there's a great deal of money at stake for her here, so _no_ ," she shook her head with a certain finality. "We shall say nothing and continue on here as if everything is as planned."

"Look," John frowned as he tried to reinforce his case. "These are some seriously bad people here who will not hesitate to turn violent the second they think something's not pukka," he paused. "I can get you and Sarah away down the beach towards San Vincenzo and have Sherlock come meet us at the same time. We could all be out of here within the hour if we planned things right."

"And if we're spotted?" Lillian's eyes glinted blue ice. "If they find us before we can get properly away and they catch Sarah? Do you _really_ think for one _second_ that I will have that girl's life and my grandson's wellbeing put at risk in any way _whatsoever_?" her voice had dropped to a slightly threatening growl which was alarming enough in itself without the accompanying stormy look. John had never known Sherlock's mother to be anything but a calm and marginally dotty lady who lived out in the Kent countryside. This hard-eyed, snapping combatant glaring him down was an entirely unknown creature.

"We stay and brave this thing through," she added, relaxing her shoulders a fraction, patting her hair smooth along the side of her head. "All we need to do is get through the rest of the day and dinner and we can leave earlier than planned in the morning; I'm sure Sarah can make up some story about feeling ill or something, but it will be more believable tomorrow morning than us all simply disappearing this afternoon, don't you think?"

Heaving a short sigh before sucking in a long breath, John wondered why he had imagined for even a minute he might be able to convince one of the Holmes family to do something they weren't keen on doing.

"I can't guarantee the safety of either of you if we stay," he muttered back, hoping he could find some argument that would make Lillian listen, but she was already tuning away from him, her face easing into a faint smile as she waved at someone walking down the beach towards them.

"Signor _Fesch_ ," she raised her voice and turned, lifting her hand to slide it around his elbow. "Thank you so much for lending me this beautiful shawl; I hadn't realised just how fresh the sea breeze was out here. Shall we all go inside?" she looked sideways at John. "Coming?"

###

Sarah had never been in any hotel before where there was an actual koi pond complete with trickling fountain and gently swimming fish in the middle of the lounge, but apparently, La Casa di Sabbia was coming up with a great many firsts. Looking around the room as if admiring the overall orientalesque theme, she spotted no less than five of the seemingly carelessly scattered small, black-dotted gold circles at various vantage-points around the room. One high up above the huge ultra-thin wall television; another to one side of the wide balcony window, a third hidden among a flurry of the dots on the far end wall by the bedrooms and two others in the diametrically-facing corners. But they were so well hidden and so carefully away from any direct light source that unless you knew _precisely_ what you were looking for and how to find them, they would never even be noticed. The one above the TV would be completely invisible once the device was switched on.

So, what was going on? If John was correct, and she had no reason to doubt him or Sherlock, then there were likely to be some very bad things happening with the people involved with the _House of Sand_. The obvious implication was that of blackmail and extortion, but also, given the intended clientele, perhaps even industrial espionage? There were going to be some seriously wealthy people staying at the hotel if everything went to plan; wealthy people who had to be making their money somehow, so perhaps that was part of the plan too? Shaking her head, she heard the faint ding of the arriving lift and returned to the passageway outside the room to, hopefully, see Lillian and John. A single body emerged.

"Where _is_ she?" she whispered, turning her face away from the nearest gold-dotted camera.

Taking her arm and holding up the small silver recorded she'd given him earlier, John pulled her down the corridor away from the lift. He'd spotted a whole heap more of the bloody cameras on his way back; the whole place was starting to resemble a giant maze for spies and frankly, it gave him the willies. He wondered what other forms of surveillance there might be going on in the hotel; it stood to reason that the kind of people investing this kind of money wouldn't stop at just visual eavesdropping; he had to make sure Sarah was careful in what she said.

"Let's go and have another look outside, shall we?" he asked, strolling a little further down the passageway before waving his fingers across the door-side light. The heavy wooden double doors swung open silently allowing them to enter where they both paused simultaneously, all other thoughts blown away as their eyes took in the floor-to-ceiling aviary in the form of a golden tubular cage several yards in diameter. The enormous edifice was filled with exotic live creepers and numbers of tiny little birds, some kind of brilliantly coloured miniature finches, fluttering and cheeping quietly to themselves.

"Good grief," Sarah couldn't help it. "Indoor beaches, swimming pool balconies, African kingdoms and now aviaries," she shook her head before making a determined move towards the large balcony, swiping her palm across the ubiquitous metal plate in the wall. As the glass doors melted away before them, it was immediately obvious that this particular and oddly-shaped triangular balcony was one of the concealed spaces not immediately obvious from the outside. How the architects had managed to come up with such a plan that allowed the sunlight to flood in from above and yet to keep the balcony itself almost completely hidden from sight was even more astonishing than the giant birdcage behind them. There was only a thin vertical opening between the walls facing the sea, with the view from the balcony staring directly at a single specimen tree on a nearby headland. "I suppose not everyone will be here for the vista," she said, taking a seat in one of the luxurious chairs surrounding an exterior dining table. "But this place looks secluded enough," she paused, looking around the balcony for any of the gold dots. There seemed to be none, though she might have missed them. They would take no chances. Sitting with her back to the glass door and her eyes on the solitary pine tree across the bay, Sarah waited until John took the seat beside her, also facing forward.

"Before you start," John lifted his hand a couple of inches above the tabletop, pausing her inevitably demanding questions. "Remember that both Mycroft and Sherlock had to have gotten what they have from _somewhere_ ," he said. "Turns out their mother has no intention of setting a cat among the pigeons by making it look as though you want to leave early or simply by going for a long walk down the beach and not coming back," he shook his head faintly. "She's adamant that if these people are so dangerous, then the best thing to do is simply play along until tomorrow morning and then one of you can claim to be feeling unwell and decide to leave earlier than planned, but it would be all above board and with nobody the wiser. All we have to do is make it through the rest of the day, tonight and tomorrow morning and we can all be out of here ..." John paused, rubbing the palm of his hand across his face. _Why had he imagined the Holmes family might be even remotely reasonable?_ "Personally, I don't like it for a second, and I'm half-tempted to call Mycroft and have him arrange for a Commando drop or something."

Looking sideways at him, Sarah wondered just how much of that last statement had been hyperbole; John had sounded entirely sincere. The cast of his features seemed pretty serious too.

"Mycroft told me he worked in the Home Office," she murmured. "I knew he had to be doing something special given that he swans around in late model Jags and expensive suits, but he never said anything about ..." she hesitated before wriggling her fingers abstractly in the air.

"Yeah," John nodded. "He does that. Did it to me the first time we met in an abandoned warehouse, would you believe ... took me bloody ages to find out just how high up he was in the government and the scope of his authority," he shook his head again. "Not entirely sure I have more than the sketchiest idea even now, really," he smiled faintly. "Sherlock says Mycroft _is_ the British Government, when he's not moonlighting and running the CIA or something," he shrugged. "Not that _I'll_ ever be the one to find out," he turned slightly, giving Sarah a very particular look.

It took her a moment to realise the implication.

"Well, I'm hardly going to be the one he spills his secrets to, am I?" she said, staring out across the bay at the lone tree. "Half the time we're barely on speaking terms, although he does seem to have mellowed a bit since we came over here," she paused and frowned. "I had no idea he was so ... _so_..."

"Yeah, well he is," John rested both arms on the table in front of them, staring at the palms of his hands. "And I'm entirely serious about getting him to pull out the big guns; the only reason he didn't at the outset was because of ..." he stopped himself abruptly.

"Yes, I get the idea," Sarah frowned even more. This new information was making her feel ... strange. She'd long known that Mycroft was different from other men, but she was only just starting to see quite how different. "Would he really ...?" she blinked her eyes down to the tabletop. " _Commandos?_ "

"If he really wanted to?" John looked sage. "In a heartbeat."

"And yet he let me come over here, with his mother, to a place he knew might be dangerous," Sarah paused, thoughtfully.

"And don't forget your passenger," John smiled on one side of his mouth as he glanced down towards her bulging front. "I'm not sure you've quite cottoned-on to just how hard the man's been trying to keep you happy."

"He's not an easy individual to tolerate," Sarah flattened her mouth. "He's bloody arrogant for starters."

"And welcome to my world," John grinned properly. "Sherlock isn't quite as scary though he's twice as daft to share a flat with," he sounded philosophical. "Now, how do you suggest we attempt to make this wacky plan work?" he asked. "I can probably hold my own on the camera front as long as I don't actually meet a proper photographer; if anyone really asks me some technical questions they'll know I'm a fake pretty swiftly, but what about you? Can you do your thing under these circumstances?"

Puffing out a deep breath, Sarah nodded, half to herself. "I think we might be able to get away with it if we really have to," she said. "I can give you hints on what kind of shots to take and how to set your gear up," she added. "I'm not a half-bad photographer myself if I need to be, though if we are being watched, and I think it's only sensible to assume that we might be, then we really do need to get cracking on our routine just in case anyone starts asking awkward questions," she paused. "After all, they are supposed to be paying me a great deal of money for this gig."

John got to his feet, helping Sarah up. "Yeah; Lillian mentioned something about there being a lot of money at risk here for you ... "he paused, curious but unwilling to ask.

"Quarter-mil," Sarah pointed out through the narrow gap towards the lone pine tree. "You need to shoot that now while we're here," she said. "It's a stunning image. Run the Sony holding the lens dead centre and level while you move your body around the space," she added. "You can cut stills later if you need to, but it's an iconic shot and goes perfectly with the kind of reclusive, desert image the 'House of Sand' conjures up."

Following Sarah's advice, John did exactly that, finding that as he walked slowly around the triangular space, the image of the tree changed angles and shadows. He was relieved that at least one of them knew what she was doing ... hang on a minute ...

" _How_ much?" his eyes, still focused on the distant pine, narrowed.

"And now shall we continue our voyage of exploration?" smiling sweetly, Sarah took up the small Olympus recorder and began speaking in low even tones as she described the sensations she was gleaning from the hidden balcony. John heard the words 'splendid isolation' and 'unparalleled spatials' and decided to keep playing with the Sony.

"You never actually told me what happened to Robby Muir. He better not be pissed off with me about this, he's a damn good 'photog," Sarah kept her face down as if she was checking the carpet as they returned to the birdcaged-room behind the glass doors. "I'm guessing after what you've told me that Mycroft had something to do with arranging your swap with my favourite Australian?"

"Chucked me and Sherlock onto an RAF transport and flew us to Lisbon where I'm very much afraid your antipodean hunk is currently languishing in airport security on the grounds of possessing a faked passport," John shrugged. "I got the passport and the cameras and a flight to Pisa, then got choppered down to the helipad here right next to the landing strip. Sherlock was supposed to have a car waiting for him at the Pisa airport to bring him directly down to San Vincenzo, and if it was one of Mycroft's drivers, then he'd be down here in thirty minutes or less. The car's supposed to be waiting in San Vincenzo in case we need it. I probably arrived not a half-hour after you two did, though I was sweating a bit, not knowing if they'd already heard the name 'Holmes'. Thank god for small mercies, eh?"

After walking a little further down the glamorously decorated passageway, they entered yet another suite and stopped dead in the doorway. The floor was made completely of glass. Not only that, but beneath the glass was clear blue water and what looked like a sea-coral reef, complete with living starfish and deep red anemones, their tentacles floating and billowing in an unseen current with the occasional vivid flash of a neon-blue fish.

"Seen it all now," John already had the Sony at waist-level as he manoeuvred carefully across the clear yet strangely non-skiddy glass.

"This will be a sod to keep clean; I hope they're planning on paying their staff really well," Sarah lifted the recorder to her mouth, drifts of words flowing into the small device as she walked slowly around the room ostensibly looking at the floor and the other points of interest but in reality, counting the camera-dotted gold circles. There seemed to be at least five that she could see, though it was entirely possible there might be more. Sarah opened the glass doors and stepped out into the warming sun. It was close to one o'clock and she'd need to eat something soon.

Joining her, John stared out across the broad expanse of the mostly calm Mediterranean Sea, the blue-grey waves thin and passive on the shore below.

"Why so many cameras, John?" Sarah looked at the water with unseeing eyes as she wrestled with the question. "It can't just be for security; there's something else going on ... but _what?_ "

"Sherlock would know," John murmured. "And I need to talk to him in any case to explain what the plan is," he added, smiling as her stomach growled. "How about we go and find you something to eat and you keep everyone occupied while I go and make a quick call?"

"Fair enough," Sarah shut off the Olympus. "I'm quite hungry, despite everything."

"You're burning up a lot of energy these days," John waved the doors closed behind them as they headed for the nearest set of lifts, Sarah already looking at the strange little location-finder to pinpoint the place designated for lunch. Down to the Ground Floor then along the promenade for about fifty yards; there was what looked like a big meeting room of some sort.

At that moment, the phone in her pocket chimed softly. She had only heard that precise ringtone once before and she stopped, uncertain. Digging in her pocket, she dragged the phone out and swiped the screen. The sender was hidden which made his identity obvious.

"Mycroft?" she spoke very quietly; they were standing in an open hallway and it was anyone's guess if the place was under surveillance or not. John nodded and stepped tactfully to one side, admiring the walls in general and the random gold dots in particular though without _seeming_ to admire them too much.

"Change of plan, my dear," Mycroft's voice was as clear as if he were in the corridor beside her. "I've just been informed that Soren Mancuso, friend and business-partner of Ottavio Pisani, is enroute to San Vincenzo, though my source has only just been able to contact us, so this Intel may already be several minutes old. Driving time from Pisa to _La Casa di Sabbia_ is about an hour if one sticks to the speed limits, so Mancuso and his entourage may be with you anytime in the next forty minutes. I want you all to leave now. Get my mother on the beach and walk towards San Vincenzo. I've already had Sherlock alerted; he's on the way to meet you. I have the hotel on satellite, but I need you to move _now_. Will you go?"

"Yes, of course," Sarah didn't even consider refusing. "But your mother has already decided it would be too dangerous to leave and she might not be easy to convince ..."

"Find a way. You have less than forty minutes. _Go now_ ," the phone went dead at the same second that John's phone rang. By the way he turned his face down and away from the cameras; he was also receiving an unexpected call from an unidentified caller.

Within moments, he had ended the conversation and returned the phone to an inner pocket of his jacket. Lifting his eyebrows a fraction he nodded. "We go now," he murmured. "Can you think of an excuse?" Taking her elbow, he led her swiftly to the lift.

Sarah tried to calm all the sudden things bouncing around inside her head.

"You could say you want to take a rolling approach to the hotel from the direction of San Vincenzo and invite Lillian and I for a little walk on the beach, maybe?" she carefully avoided looking at any of the cameras as they entered the glitzy lift.

For the sake of potential watchers, John immediately began mooting the notion that a walk on the beach might be nice at this time of day if she felt up to it; perhaps give her an appetite for lunch if as she hadn't been feeling like it ... a nice little stroll along a flat beach ... all that lovely sea air.

The doors of the lift opened at the Ground Floor and they walked outside and onto the sandstone promenade, walking in silence until they heard some soft flamenco-style guitar music in the air and the faint sound of clinking china. Several waiters in white jackets and dark ties stood stiffly along the perimeter of the clearing though one was currently filling a series of champagne flutes with a delicately bubbling pinkish wine.

"Ah, Sarah, my _dear_!" Lillian turned, a canape of caviar and lemon sorbet in one hand, a glass of undoubtedly very good champagne in the other. "I was starting to wonder where you and John had gone; you _must_ sit down and have some lunch now, I really insist," the Holmes matriarch put down her glass and took Sarah's hand, leading her back inside the wall of glass beside them into yet another large and open public space. This time there was no mighty waterfall. This time there was an enormous arboretum with tall trees and native bushes growing actually within the frame of the hotel itself. The floor around was mostly sand and round river stones at the edges of the various pathways. The song of birds and the occasional flutter of bright wings made it feel like a small and secluded paradise.

"Come, come," Lillian pulled her deeper into the small wood where a long, white-clothed table had been set with a sumptuous luncheon surrounded by comfortable dining chairs. Lunch, apparently, was served.

"I was actually hoping to have a little walk on the beach," Sarah tried to stand as the older woman pushed her gently down towards the nearest chair. There was a sound of several male voices speaking Italian not far away. "I'm not feeling terribly hungry, you see," she added, as her nose caught the smell of something delicious and her stomach growled traitorously.

"Yes," John stepped up with a bright smile. "I suggested a little walk down by the sea might be just the thing to settle Sarah's upset stomach," he said, looking down at the now seated woman. "You did say you weren't feeling a hundred percent, didn't you?"

"I did, that's right," Sarah tried to stand again, only to have Lillian take the adjacent seat and press her hand gently down onto the chair. It was no good; Sarah sank back. The Italian-speaking voices came closer.

"We can go for a walk after lunch if you really want to," Lillian smiled in a mildly puzzled way between Sarah and John. "But I need you to sit and eat something substantial before we go any further; you did bring me along for a reason you know."

 _I know I did ... and it wasn't the best ever idea, was it?_

"Lillian, we have to go for a walk now," Sarah wrapped her fingers around Lillian's soft hand and squeezed slightly until she had the older woman's full attention. It took a moment, but the light blue eyes widened slowly as realisation sank in.

"Well then, if you must go for a walk, then of course," Lillian paused halfway between sitting and standing.

"And you _must_ come with us," Sarah began to push herself upwards just as a group of three men rounded the gentle curve of the sandy pathway running through the trees, their conversation ceasing as they approached the table.

"But you are already here!" Lucien Fesch smiled widely, casting his arms in the air in greeting. "And we have the perfect time now to all get to know each other over a special lunch," he paused, turning to the two men beside him, one much the same age as himself, equally good-looking but with harsh, deep lines running down his face, his dark eyes already taking in everything about the seated visitors. The other man was considerably older though his overall stature and the structure of his face and body, other than his silvering hair, was almost identical to that of the younger man beside him. No father and son could have been more physically obvious.

"May I present Signor Franco Mancuso," he dipped his head before the older man to his right, "and his eldest son, Signor Soren Mancuso."

Feeling her stomach plunge down to somewhere approaching ground-level, Sarah was quick to paste a fake smile on her face; she'd done it enough times before when having to deal with unwanted attentions on her travels. But she stayed seated; her knees not being quite as swift to deal with the situation.

John's eyes had widened fractionally but otherwise he hadn't given himself away by so much as a twitch, though clearly they'd both had the same conversation with Mycroft.

Lillian however, was blithely unaware of any uncomfortable undertone and smiled happily as the two newcomers approached.

"Signors," Fesch babbled something briefly in Italian, before turning to smile broadly at Sarah and John, throwing a small wink in Lillian's direction. "The great travel writer you demanded I bring in to write about our wonderful project," his tone suggesting Sarah's presence hovered somewhere between that of a minor deity and the British royals.

Pushing herself to her feet, Sarah realised there was no going back now; the best they could do was weather the storm but leave as soon as they possibly could.

"Gentlemen," she smiled, her natural height easily that of the Mancuso _padre e figlio_. Both watched her stand, noting her physical condition and ... they both smiled back. And not just a polite smile, but a genuinely welcoming expression. Perhaps the precept about Italians loving their children was not so far-fetched after all.

"No _no_ , you must sit!" in heavily accented English, the elder Mancuso stepped forward immediately, waving Sarah back into her chair, snapping a finger at the nearest servitor to ensure she was comfortable and her desires met. "You must take every care for you and the bambino," he smoothed down the front of his impeccable suit, turning as John stood.

"Robby Muir," he said, "but everyone calls me John."

"Signor _Muir_ , the great _fotografo_ ," the older man shook his hand enthusiastically, beaming at the shorter blond man. "I am delighted to meet with you after everything I have heard about your work, he paused, turning to meet Lillian's wide gaze, his own eyes. "And who is this lovely signora?"

"This is my Executive Assistant, Lillian Stuart," Sarah introduced the somewhat bemused woman carefully. "Ms Stuart makes sure I do all the right things," she added, hoping that Lillian would remember who she needed to be while they were still in Italy, now more than ever.

"And your husband is happy for you to leave him lonely and in another country?" Franco Mancuso lifted his eyebrows teasingly as he pulled out the seat directly across the table from Lillian, his eyes on her face and a small curve to his mouth.

"Stuart is my maiden name, Signor Mancuso," Lillian looked faintly superior.

"But how fascinating," Mancuso Senior's smile grew more pronounced. "You must tell me all about your work with the fantastic Ms Lawrence ..."

 _Oh god_ , Sarah closed her eyes momentarily. All of them caught up in the middle of something weird and unexplained ... Sherlock about to walk into unknown danger and now his mother flirting with the head of an Italian crime family ... Mycroft was going to erupt.

###

 **Note:** Work has turned feral once again and my time belongs to everyone except myself. My next update may be ready a few days later than usual.


	16. Sixteen

**Chapter Sixteen**

John watched the slow-motion car crash of impending catastrophe with a sense of disbelieving resignation. He'd been in any number of scrapes and sticky places with Holmes the Younger, but not one of them, in hindsight, _not one_ , felt like the danger they were courting right here and now. Lillian had absolutely no idea she was being chatted up by the head of one of the most powerful crime families in Europe ... he hoped to god that she didn't get carried away and let anything slip. He didn't even have his gun with him and the only knives to hand looked like they were gold plated and just not sharp _enough_.

"And so I said to Sarah that she couldn't possibly come over here at such a late stage in her pregnancy," Lillian shrugged expressively as she accepted a refill of her champagne glass. "But I'm afraid her professionalism would not allow her to turn the request down, even though she almost did, you know."

"Signora Lawrence was not going to take the commission?" Franco Mancuso sat back in his chair, a slight frown deepening the lines on his face. "But why?"

Beside her, Sarah wondered if it might be possible to spill something on Lillian's lap so that she'd have to stop talking for a few minutes, but not having anything spillable other than a cup of hot tea, she was out of luck. Lifting her eyes, she met John's pained gaze. It seemed they were sharing the same anxiety attack.

"Oh, my Sarah is a highly ethical professional," Lillian paused and looked squarely into Franco Mancuso's darkly attractive eyes. "She questioned her ability to do a proper job of the commission given her current state and she very nearly called the whole thing off, you see," Lillian popped another of the caviar canapés into her mouth and discovered, much to her surprise, that her glass was empty yet again.

"This champagne is really quite lovely," she said happily, as one of the uniformed servers swiftly refilled the glass with the faintly pink wine.

"If I had known of your condition, _Signora_ , I would have ensured Signor Fesch had something other than champagne to offer with which to celebrate your being here," Soren Mancuso eased himself into the empty chair next to Sarah, his gaze flickering from her face to her belly and back. "We Italians are very careful with our ladies when they are ..." he wave a hand at her generally and blinked down at the absence of rings on her fingers. "Though I see you like to do things differently."

Unsure in what sense the observation had been made, Sarah toyed with the glass of icy fruit juice she'd just been given, very aware that the situation was precarious and that Soren Mancuso was undoubtedly a very dangerous man. Though Mycroft hadn't been specific about why, it was enough that he'd named this man in particular as he told her to leave the hotel. And if Mycroft considered Mancuso dangerous, she'd not waste her breath arguing. The sensible thing to do would be to keep any dealings with the man to the absolute barest minimum.

And yet ...

"I think most women would live their lives differently if they had any real choice in the matter," she sipped from her glass. "The preference to do things in a manner that suits me rather than anyone else is hardly restricted to a specific gender, is it?" she smiled, her eyebrows lifting a little.

Leaning fractionally back in his chair, the deep lines in Soren Mancuso's face lost some of their sharpness as he considered her statement, his own eyebrows rising sharply. He looked vaguely amused.

"You argue like a man," he sipped his champagne, holding her gaze, the faintest of challenges in his eyes.

"I argue like an adult," Sarah barely blinked. "In my profession, gender is irrelevant to the creation of a quality product," she said. "I would never dream of limiting _anyone_ to the cultural dictations of their sex," she plucked a juicy red grape from an extravagant table display and crunched it.

Mancuso's eyes widened as he inferred her meaning. He sat quite still for a moment before laughing. "You suggest that being a man has cultural limitations?" he grinned, swallowing down the remainder of the fizzy wine.

"You think it doesn't?" Sarah remembered she was hungry and piled several of the small savoury canapés onto a plate together with a handful of dainty pasties and more grapes. "You're quite sure about that?"

"Signor Muir, you must come to my rescue," Mancuso rapped the tablecloth between he and John as the blond man watched on helplessly. If there was ever a disaster waiting to happen, it was right here at this table. Trying to keep at least one eye on Sherlock's mother and now both ears on Sara's conversation, he already felt a growing thrum of headache at his temples.

"Sorry, what?" John realised the best thing might be to play dumb and not inflame anything.

"The divine Signora Lawrence advises me that being a man is limiting," the Italian laughed again. "Have you found this to be the case in your own profession?"

Sarah munched on something half-crispy with both prawn and peach flavours. It was rather good and she hunted for more.

John had been silent for a few moments as Mancuso's amused question sank in. He shrugged. The answer was as simple as it was obvious.

"Yes, actually," he nodded, remembering he was expected to be Australian. "Being a man can be a complete pain in the arse, to be honest. Always being expected to fix things, to know what to do in emergencies, to be the strong one all the time," he made a dismissive _moue_. "It's much easier in my job if my patie ... patrons consider me as having no gender at all; makes things a lot less confronting for some people."

Soren Mancuso bit a pastry in half, his strong white teeth as decisive as the rest of him. He blinked, pausing.

"To be truthful, I had not considered such things as limitations before," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "In Italy, boys are brought up to be men from the moment they can understand what a man is," he paused, turning his head to glance at his father who was still engrossed in a conversation with the Stuart woman; no matter their age, it seemed there was something about a British woman that fascinated.

"Besides, what alternative is there?" he demanded expansively, selecting an avocado mousse canapé, munching it with some dispatch. "Who will be strong for my family if not me, eh? Who else can deal with problems when things go wrong? Am I to rely on others to fix my problems? On my wife, my _mother_ , perhaps?"

An abrupt silence swept across the table as Soren's voice had grown in volume.

"You might be surprised at what your mother did for you, young man," Lillian's clear voice was distinctly cool. "Sons forget their mother was the one who supported not only their entire early life, but also that of their father as well," she paused, examining the remains of the champagne in her glass with a sorrowful expression. "You were not born powerful."

" _Mimmo!_ " Franco Mancuso turned swiftly in his seat in order to stare at his eldest son. "If your mamma was still here, she would be very unhappy that you say such things in front of our guests," the older man frowned sharply at his son.

There was another pause as Soren stared into his father's eyes until he eventually blinked and looked down. " _Le mie scuse_ ," he waved the servers to pour more champagne for everyone. "I stand corrected," he added, his dark gaze capturing Sarah's own. "As I rarely am these days," he relaxed back into his chair, swallowing more of the bubbly wine.

"How have you found our little hotel so far?" he asked, changing the subject. "We have engaged nobody but the very best designers and architects."

"Signor Fesch provided a fairly detailed introduction and John and I have been wandering around some of the fabulous suites you have on the top floor," Sarah finished her fruit juice and looked as if lunch was the only thing on her mind. "The décor is of a stunning standard," she said, apropos of nothing. "John was saying it would be good to take a walk up to the hotel from further down the beach, as if coming from San Vincenzo. It would give us a long visual sweep and a lovely intro into the story of your House of Sand."

Nodding as he finished off another canapé, Soren Mancuso smiled. "A perfectly sound suggestion," he agreed. "I will accompany you so that I can see what it is you see; perhaps you would be so good as to inform me of how you plan on writing the piece as we walk?"

Sitting silently, John had to stop himself from blurting out that he worked better alone. If anyone had been watching he and Sarah on any of the gazillion surveillance cameras around the place, then they'd know immediately that he was lying. Maybe the cameras weren't even working, but it was too big a risk.

"Yeah, sure," he smiled easily. "Though I don't know if you'd be able to see much; we weren't planning on going too far down the beach; only enough so that the main building wasn't entirely visible," he got to his feet. "I suppose we'd better get to it if we want to make the most of the light."

Turning to her right to catch Lillian's eye, Sarah was treated to Lillian's brilliant smile and some very relaxed body-language. "You two go right along," the older woman's smile continued. "Franco and I are having a lovely chat about the best places to go shopping in Rome," she waved an empty champagne glass in a languid hand. "Don't wait for me."

"But I thought you wanted to come with me for a little walk?" Sarah sought Lillian's gaze, but the Holmes mater was already blinking sleepily.

"No no, my dear," the older woman patted her arm. "You go off with John and I'll see you on your return. Just remember not to overdo things, won't you ..."

"I really think you should come with us and get some fresh _air_ , Lillian," Sarah let her voice grow a hairsbreadth more imperative. "I have a feeling if I leave you here, you'll fall asleep and then where would I be?"

There were a few moments of silence as Lillian digested the statement. "Very well, my dear. If it's that important, then of course I shall accompany you for a brief walk," she turned to smile again at her charming lunch companion. "Perhaps Signor Mancuso might care to take a little stroll with us?"

Managing not to roll his eyes or sigh _too_ obviously, John nodded.

"Great idea." He picked up the camera from the table beside him and wrapped the strap around his neck. "Let's all go and get some bracing fresh air and have a walk down the beach, shall we?"

Soren Mancuso also rose to his feet, holding out a hand to assist Sarah to stand before she had any chance to respond to either Lillian's unhurried agreement or John's energetic _bonhomie_. Giving a small sigh, Sarah permitted Mancuso to assist her up as she lumbered upright, following John towards the great glass doors. Perhaps he'd had an idea, or knew something that he hadn't mentioned. Either way, they really needed to be on the beach in case Sherlock appeared at the doors of the hotel before he could be stopped.

In a matter of minutes, the small party were out of the hotel and already walking along the stretch of hard, brine-soaked seastrand. By the sour expression John was doing his best to keep off his face, the plan to make good their escape by simply sauntering away to San Vincenzo was unlikely to provide the hoped-for result.

They had barely strolled more than a few hundred yards when John, several feet away at the head of the party, turned sharply to his right to stare at the line of waves on the sand not ten feet away, his eyes tracking along the small froth of water all the way down the beach towards San Vincenzo. So abrupt and unexpected was his action that Sarah found herself focused on what he was doing. What _was_ he doing? What was it he saw in the line of water that was invisible only a few feet further away? She craned her neck to peer into the shallow waves but saw nothing untoward. With an almost theatrical slowness, John lifted his eyes from the glassy ripples, following the line of the land back from the town towards the hotel, already partly hidden by the curve of the beach.

" _Magnificent_ ," he exclaimed, lifting the Sony in one hand and throwing out his other arm as wide as his grin. "I'm going to be able to get some _fantastic_ shots from here with the light behind the skyline ... it gives me both the grandly scenic and an intimate landscape," he marvelled openly, striding towards the edge of the water and back again, his antics so unexpected that all eyes were momentarily on him. "I'm going to need to come out here and take some more shots after dark," he grinned madly again, turning on his heel to begin striding once more towards the town now clearly visible along the shore ahead. "This is _amazing_ ," he called out as, his stride lengthening even more.

There was little else anyone could do except to follow, the bemused and yet somehow impressed Mancusos, both father and son, watching what was clearly genius at work. Yet before anyone had traversed more than another hundred yards or so, John stopped sharply again, holstered his camera and turned around looking drained.

"Right then," he announced wearily. "I've got everything I need for the moment, though I really do want to come back out here in the dark," he added. "The night sky in these parts must be pretty fabulous too and thanks to this little beauty," he patted the Sony with some affection," I should be able to get everything I want."

Unsure now what the plan was, or even if there were any plan at all, Sarah frowned though turned back towards the hotel with everyone else, wondering what John was up to. She needed to speak with him in private; something was up and she wasn't about to be kept in the dark. To her immediate right, Lillian and Franco were chattering away as thick as thieves, though perhaps that wasn't the happiest observation she might have made.

In minutes, they were all back inside the atrium they'd left a little more than a quarter-of-an-hour earlier.

"I need to have a look at the other side of the building," Sarah waved the tiny Olympus recorder she'd just pulled from her pocket and murmured a handful of words as she stared around the great glass-enclosed space that held their little lunch-party, a miniature forest and a microcosm of flora and fauna. "I've seen most of the Northern side, but I really want to get a feel for the whole place while there's still daylight," she swivelled around, looking for the suggestions of a lift.

Lucien Fesch was once again at her side. "If you are quite sure signora, that you are sufficiently rested?' he paused delicately. For an _uber_ -masculine Italian man, he was being assiduous in the care of his guests. Sarah turned to meet his concerned gaze and smiled.

"Remember," he added, "that the two penthouse suites in the southern section of the hotel are private and not to be entered."

"I'm perfectly fine, signor," she waggled the small recording device. "And I also remember about the apartments being off-limits," she smiled. "There are more than enough wonders in the open suites to keep us very busy," she nodded, looking at John, waiting by the glass entranceway. "We have to cover as much ground as we can this afternoon, so that John and I can fill your brief with the very best of options," she added, walking towards the open air. "Stay in contact, Lillian," she looked at the older woman once more seated at the table, innocently peeling a tangerine. "I may need a third opinion on which way to angle our approach."

"I'll either be in here or I'll be looking for you," Lillian popped a dainty segment of orange in her mouth and smiled innocuously. "But do call me if you need anything in the interim. Have fun."

Now _that_ was on the odd side as well. Lillian hadn't sounded remotely tiddly and yet she'd definitely seemed a little worse for wear before they'd all followed John down to the water' edge not twenty minutes before. Yet now the older woman appeared perfectly clear-headed again; Sarah needed to speak to John and fast. Striding out past the white-coated waiters and onto the beach-edge promenade, she found the blond man standing twenty feet away on the far side of the door by which they'd originally entered the atrium.

"This way," he said quietly, beckoning her with a brief gesture. "I'm fairly certain we'll need to look at the back of the hotel first," he added, casually checking for onlookers before leading the way right around the southern corner of the building without another word. An artful growth of palms and luxurious undergrowth hid their movements in a second.

Sarah was convinced now that something was very much up. John's strange behaviour on the beach and then Lillian acting oddly, and now ... a walk around the back of the service areas of the hotel? Not that she'd mind reviewing the kitchens and the laundry, but it was pretty obvious that what Fesch and the Mancusos wanted was something that sang of luxury inlaid with golden gleaming images. Waste-disposal practices would hardly feature large in that kind of a scenario.

"In here, quick," John ducked inside a white-painted yet still fairly nondescript doorway. Beyond the entrance, lay a wide and lengthy tan-painted passageway lined on both sides with widely spaced out half-glassed doors, each one with a function painted onto the frosted glass itself in both Italian and English. The rooms beyond each were dim and unlit, seeming entirely empty and unused.

 _Valet Service_ ... _Housekeeping_ ... _Chauffeur_ ...

Stopping in his tracks, John walked back towards the one marked _Housekeeping_ , Pausing for a moment, he grinned. "Not your housekeeper," he muttered the words and shook his head as he tried the handle. In the next instant, Sarah found herself being pulled bodily and none too gently into the shadowy room and away from the slightly opaqued glass of the door.

" _Sherlock?_ " she gasped, as the tall man tugged her even further from the doorway. "How did you get here without being seen?" she hissed, watching as the younger Holmes dragged off a sand-coloured beanie, allowing his tousled dark curls to flop about.

"Here John," he said, pointing to a sand-tinted canvas bag on a nearby table. "That's mostly for you," he said, turning his gaze back to Sarah, swiftly gauging her facial expression, body-language and physical wellbeing. "Good," he nodded, reaching into one of the pockets on his army desert camouflage outfit, extracting a diminutive device, pressing one of the two buttons on its main face. A small green light flickered as he pressed the button a further three times in rapid succession, obviously some sort of code.

"Mycroft was, for some reason, rather troubled," he said, as if that explained everything. "Here," he said, holding out the small black box out to Sarah, dropping it into her cupped hand. "It's Mycroft's version of a panic alarm. Try not to press the red button unless you are quite sure you want a flying visit from a platoon of highly enthusiastic Royal Marines," he added, turning back to John who had unpacked the contents of the canvas bag.

Mycroft was sufficiently worried to have his brother send a coded message about her wellbeing? She wondered what the three stabs of the button meant. _All's well?_ Not yet been caught out by the bad guys? Sarah made a note to ask him when they next met.

John's unpacking had revealed a small pile of items. A neat but solid-looking pistol lay on the table; black, compact and undeniably deadly. The soldier in him found it imperative to check the weapon's status, finding it fully loaded and with two spare magazines. The spares vanished quickly into either pocket of his jacket while the pistol itself fitted snugly in the waistband of his trousers, secured tight by his belt.

"It's not what I'm used to, but it'll do," he settled the back of his jacket smoothly over the barely noticeable bump.

There were also a trio of what looked like elongated electric shavers, with a fine metallic grid at one end and a handle at the other. Giving one to John, Sherlock put another in his own pocket and paused before handing the third one to Sarah.

"It's a new kind of Taser," he said. "Effective up to fifteen feet with a laser-assisted target acquisition," he added, showing her how to depress and slide the trigger on the flat side, allowing the metallic guard to slide back and allow the node-darts to detach. "Each hit lasts for up to thirty seconds of high voltage output," he said. "If you need to fire it, go for the widest part of the target, then drop the Taser on the floor and get away as fast as you can."

"There's no way you can make a run for it in your condition," John handed over the one Sherlock had just given him. "I've got the gun and won't need this," he said. "But if you do ever have to fire it at someone, then at least you'll have a backup," he said. "Not that you'll be needing to use it." His smile was almost alarmingly reassuring.

"But how on earth did you manage to get in here?" Sarah watched as Sherlock lifted a clean pair of socks from the unpacked bag, peeling off the ones he was currently wearing. He also upended his pale suede desert boots, leaving small piles of fine silica on the floor.

"Sand gets everywhere," he shook his socks out before stuffing them in a pocket and slid his freshly clad feet back into the boots. "Much better," he stood, paused for Sarah to make the connection. He sighed when she didn't. "Sand dunes," he said, in a low voice. "While John was doing a spot of prestidigitation on the beach, misdirecting everyone's attention out to sea, I took advantage of the few seconds distraction to sprint around the other side of the sand dunes and reach the back of the hotel before anyone in your little beach party managed to reach the front," he turned to nod at his blond friend. "Good job there, by the way."

"Yeah, I was on the lookout for movement and was sure I saw something skulking around the dune grasses," he nodded back. "Thought that if it _was_ you, I'd at least be able to give you a few seconds grace," he grinned.

Sherlock looked mildly affronted. "I do not skulk," he frowned. "And how could you possibly spot anything?" he demanded, his vanity rejecting the slur on his expertise. "I'm in desert gear the same colour as the sand. By rights, you shouldn't have been able to see anything at all."

"Kandahar," John tilted his head forward, giving his friend a knowing look from beneath his eyebrows. "You forget that seeing things we weren't supposed to see was what kept most of us alive."

"Okay, boys," Sarah interrupted. "Would someone care to explain to me what in hell's name is going on? Why are you here, Sherlock, and what's with this place?"

"How's my mother?" ignoring her questions, Sherlock turned back to focus on Sarah, his eyes scarcely more than an inch higher than her own.

"Lillian?" Sarah was momentarily thrown, deciding to sit for a minute in the nearest chair. "Your mother's fine," she said. "She seems to be taking everything in her stride."

"Yeah, though I wouldn't call chatting up the opposition 'taking things in her stride'," John finished checking out the tiny phone he'd discovered at the bottom of the bag and waggled it in the air. "This linked to who I think it's probably linked to?" The phone disappeared inside an inner pocket.

"Yes; Mycroft's assistant is tracking us even as we speak," Sherlock nodded. "What did you mean about the cameras?" he turned back to meet Sarah's gaze. "John told Mycroft you had spotted something odd about the security cameras in the hotel," he said. "Tell me."

Her head spinning a little at the speed things were developing, Sarah blinked a couple of times as she rallied her thoughts.

"There's too many cameras everywhere," she tried to phrase things succinctly. "In the private suites, in the passageways, in every major room and public space," she added. "I don't know for sure whether they're actually live yet, but John and I have been treating them as if they are."

"Sensible," Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "How many did you see in each suite?"

"In the main living area of each suite I spotted five cameras in an almost identical formation in each case; there may have been more in the bedrooms, though I didn't actually look that closely at the sleeping quarters."

"Pity," Sherlock frowned. "Be a little more thorough next time. How did you spot them? If this place is so heavily surveilled, I'd have thought any cameras would be exceedingly well hidden."

"Tell him about the gold dots," John folded his arms.

"Gold dots?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

Sarah took a deep breath. "I'm used to looking for hotel security; I've been in so many hotels in my job that it's second nature. The cameras here are hidden in the middle of some of the gold-dotted décor that seems to be prevalent throughout the entire hotel," she said, indication an invisible line high up on the walls around them. "Most people wouldn't even notice them or wouldn't know what they were if they did spot them," Sarah shrugged. "But there's too damn many of them to make sense," she added. "Something feels very wrong about this place."

"There could be at least four reasons for such a set-up," Sherlock blinked, his eyes momentarily distant. "Although one idea, while extreme, does seem obvious." Walking to the door without explaining the obviousness of anything, he eased it open a crack and peered outside. "No cameras down here however, which seems odd if the management are as paranoid as the surfeit of surveillance suggests," he said, opening the door wider and slipping through. "Unless they somehow intend to hire only honest people as staff," he murmured. "So perhaps they've kept them for the more public areas where the clientele are clearly expected to be far less trustworthy," he mused. "I'll need to see them for myself."

"But the cameras are everywhere and they may be live," Sarah shook her head. "You can't just walk out there and expect to be invisible." Taking the hand that John offered to help her up from the seat, Sarah nevertheless followed the two men from the Housekeeping office. Sherlock stopped dead in the doorway, swivelling on his toes to meet John's gaze.

"My mother is chatting _who_ up?"

"She's getting very ... companionable ... with Franco Mancuso," John shrugged. "He seems like a decent enough sort of chap, even though his sons are either nut-jobs or total bastards."

Sherlock stood and closed his eyes for a moment. " _Oh_. She's gone into spy-mode," he groaned softly. "She's done it before ..." he opened his eyes and looked at John. "Remember the time I asked her to ring my number to distract the Thames valley stalker?"

John looked thoughtful for a second before nodding slowly. "Oh, god, _yes_ ," he nodded again. "Total bollocks-up that was. She started interrogating the guy when he answered your phone," he grinned slightly at the memory. "It made for a good distraction, though."

"We need to get her out of here before she starts thinking she's being clever and I have to explain to Mycroft why I had you send a cry for the cavalry," he glanced mournfully at Sarah. "But first I need to see this unusual surveillance system," he said. "Is there any place in the building that's fenced-off or guarded?"

"No," Sarah thought for a second. "Though there's a couple of penthouse suites down at this end of the hotel we've been told not to enter," she frowned. "Probably because that's where Lucien Fesch and the Mancusos are staying while they're in the hotel."

"Then that's exactly where we need to go." Lifting his eyebrows and smiling cheerily, Sherlock strode off down the service passageway, looking for a staff lift.

###

"See?" Sherlock peered around very carefully, taking another device about the size of a spectacles case from one of the endless pockets on his camouflage jacket, directing one narrow end deliberately around the perimeter of the room. "No cameras."

"Yeah, okay, smartarse," John made sure Sarah was holding up and not getting overly worried about all the skulduggery. "How can you be so sure?"

"This is sure," Sherlock turned, holding out the small electronic device on the flat of his hand. "One of Mycroft's anti-surveillance gadgets; he said it might come in handy," he tweaked his eyebrows. "Seems my brother was correct, for once."

"Of course there's no cameras in here," Sarah believed the evidence of her own eyes. "There's not a single gold dot anywhere, nor is there any suggestion of an internal security system down here in the service passageways," she said. "Which makes it all the more weird that there's such a massive presence on the public side," she frowned. "I don't understand any of it."

"Then the sooner we get to have a look inside the forbidden suites, the sooner we can organise a mass departure from this place, and you and my mother can get all snuggly with your menfolk," Sherlock wore a faintly querulous expression as he stepped forward, Mycroft's little surveillance-detector held high.

"Your brother is not _my_ menfolk," Sarah muttered, but followed close behind in any case. John took up a rearguard position, making damn sure nobody caught them by surprise. The pistol sat heavy in the small of his back.

They made it as far as a doorway close to a large service lift before the little black gadget in Sherlock's hand _peeped_ softly.

"Hel _lo_ ," Freezing all movement in mid-step, the younger Holmes levelled the quietly chiming box around the visible space of the corridor.

"Up there," Sarah whispered, pointing to a series of barely discernible gold dots high up on the wall directly above the lift. One of them had a tiny dot of darkness at its centre. Anyone entering the doors in the normal way, directly from the front, would have their image well and truly captured by the camera.

However, the knowledge of a thing makes it that much easier to avoid. Stretching out a long arm, Sherlock managed to reach the lift's call button while still remaining half-hidden in the doorway's shallow recess.

"When the lift arrives, keep your backs to the wall and slide in around the doors," he whispered.

"But what if there's a camera inside the lift itself?" John's eyes automatically checked their perimeter. "If we're spotted in the lift, we've just given the whole game away."

"One minute," Sherlock whispered, as the lift arrived with a gentle _ping_ and the doors slid silently apart. In the few seconds the doors were open, he reached around and poked the end of Mycroft little surveillance-detector through just enough that it was able to decide whether to give a _peep_ or not. It remained entirely unruffled.

Silently and with a nod to the others, Sherlock slid into the lift, his back flat against the wall. Even if the camera above the lift was somehow actually on and was physically able to observe anything, the most it would get would be glimpses of the tops of their heads. In moments, they were all inside and the lift doors slid shut.

There weren't that many buttons on the wall to choose from, unsurprising given _La Casa di Sabbia_ was, at most, four stories tall.

"When we get to the top floor, don't move until I've checked to see if the cameras in the passageway are live," he said, even as the lift slowed to a halt, the doors sliding open of their own accord. While remaining inside the lift, Sherlock tested the surveillance waters with one arm, swinging the little black device backwards and forwards in the space beyond. The tiny box was reassuringly silent.

In the next second, he was out, staring first one way and then the other down the empty corridor, his eyes mapping everything about the excessively florid, gold-drizzled décor.

"Is it like this everywhere?" his upper lip curled in mild distaste.

"This is nothing to what we've seen at the north end," preferring not to trust everything to an electronic box of tricks, John was already standing sentry, the gun held flush against his thigh. There was no movement at either end of the corridor, though that didn't necessarily make the situation any better.

" _There_ ," Sarah tapped Sherlock's nearest shoulder. "Up there, _look_ ," she pointed up at a nearby gold spot with the tiniest of black dots in the centre.

"Then if my suspicions are correct," Sherlock mused, turning his head to look around the surrounding wallspace. "There should be another four such cameras within ..." he smiled in satisfaction as the rest of the dotted golden spots became evident.

"So what is it you're not bothering to tell us?" John was beginning to feel just a teeny bit tense; clearly something very big and probably very bad going on in the _House of Sand_ , and waiting to find out was like waiting for the other boot to drop.

"But _John_ ," Sherlock frowned down at the blond man. "The _cameras_ ," he paused again, his eyes narrowing. "Always in groups of five ..." the younger Holmes lifted his eyebrows, turning to an equally mystified Sarah. "You don't _see?_ " he sounded baffled. " _Think_. Why would anyone need to have small groups of what are clearly highly sophisticated and expensive visual recording devices located very precisely in every private suite and every public space?"

"I don't know and right now I don't particularly _care_ , Sherlock," John started to sound marginally irritated. "But what I'd _really_ very much prefer to do is to get the hell out of the middle of this passageway so that we're not spotted by any of the nice ladies walking around with armfuls of clean towels," he motioned along the corridor ahead of them. "South's that way."

"Oh, very _well_ ," Sherlock waved Mycroft's camera-spotting gadget at the little group of dots just ahead of them. Silence reigned. "Shall we go?" he suggested, stalking off without waiting for either of the others to respond.

As they headed towards the restricted penthouse suites it was clear that this part of the hotel was already well-used judging by the faint line of crushed carpeting brought on by regular traffic.

"I think we're going to find something up here a little more important than mere accommodation," Sherlock whispered as they approached the end of the corridor which was opening out into a fairly large hallway. There were two very solid-looking doors standing opposite one another.

"Which one?" John whispered back. "Left or right?"

"The right-hand suite must be located at the upper corner of the building, with lots of windows and balconies," Sarah turned her gaze towards the door to her left. "But _this_ one faces inward," she paused, looking down at the wall next to the door itself. "Nor does it have the standard keyless entry."

"Probably leads into an internal space with little or no natural lighting at all," Sherlock finished the sentence for her. "Which is a very odd kind of room for a six-star hotel to offer a guest, wouldn't you say?" he asked, stepping silently forward to rest an ear against the door.

"So what do we do?" John had returned to the point where the hallway became the more general passageway, his senses on high alert for any movement, any sound.

"I think we need to take a look," Sherlock already had his hands on the surface of the door itself before he paused, turning to Sarah. "And I think you need to go back to the lift," he said.

"As if that would make any difference now," Sarah was impatient to see what was inside the room. "Can you get us in?"

Throwing her a silent stare of unqualified disbelief, Sherlock fished into yet another pocket, bringing out a small key fob holding several very interesting-looking keys. In less than five seconds, there was a soft click as the lock next to the handle co-operated.

"Let's see what we're not supposed to see, shall we?" he said, swinging the door inwards as he spoke.

With a final careful gaze down the passageway, John joined them, standing just inside the opened door, where he froze completely still as his jaw dropped open.

" _Effing hell_."


	17. Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

It wasn't until she felt an unusual pressure in her chest that Sarah realised she'd been holding her breath. "What the hell is all this?" she murmured, stepping deeper into the weakly-lit room and staring around.

That the room wasn't entirely dark was down to the massive banks of lights arrayed across two long consuls; dozens of them, blues and reds, flickering on and off in the dimness.

After a second's blank surprise, during which Sherlock's eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline, an expression of near-bliss shaped his features and a wide smile curved his mouth. "Oh, my god," he whispered, hurling himself towards what might have been some sort of control station in the centre of the two consuls.

John was still taking it all in. His brain, the bit still functioning around his astonishment, wondered if this was all real or some weird set-up from a science fiction film set. The whole thing felt so entirely surreal that if Doctor Who decided to emerge out from the darkness, he'd be no less surprised. _What in god's name was going on here?_

Sarah found herself looking up at a series of blank glass panels angled across the upper walls. There were more than she could quickly count, their lines arrayed in front of and above the wide control desk where Sherlock was now ensconced, his fingers already playing with an unusually wide keyboard embedded in the slickly futuristic worktop. There was also a very large screen more directly in front of him as desk-level which came with some wild-looking controls reminiscent of an audio-visual mixer desk, of the kind one found in recording studios.

"What is this place, Sherlock?" keeping her voice low, Sarah came to stand behind him, one of her hands coming to rest on his shoulder without her realising. "This has nothing to do with the hotel, does it?"

"Nothing and yet everything," Sherlock muttered, smiling a little grimly as he managed to activate the screens above his head. They glowed a faintly pearlised-grey.

There were thirty squarish monitors laid out in geometric pattern ten screens wide and three deep, but their size and closeness made it feel a great deal more. Now that her eyes had accustomed themselves to the darkness, Sarah turned her head, sweeping her eyes around the whole of the very large room, which looked to be taking up the same space as an entire suite only without any internal walls. The place was huge.

One side of the room appeared empty as far as she could see, but off to the other side at the back, there were more long tables and additional groups of monitors, though these were arranged in a more conventional display on the tables themselves. In front of each group of screens was another of the crazy keyboards, a smaller version of the master station at which Sherlock now sat. She had never seen anything like this before outside of a science fiction film.

"So these link to all the cameras, do they?" John was standing close now, his own vision adjusting to the meagre light as he stared at the blinking red and blue illuminations. "Then what are those for?" he pointed at the groups of screens Sarah had just noticed.

Swivelling in his chair, Sherlock clasped his hands together, resting his chin on the linked fingers, looking for all the world as if he were at prayer.

"It's not surveillance," he shook his head slowly. "I've seen something like this before," he murmured, his eyes flicking around the room's layout. "In a lab. Though nothing at the same scale as this," he sat back in the chair, exhaling loudly. "It's a commercial set-up for three-dimensional holography."

" _What?_ " Sarah processed the words in her head. She knew what they meant, understood the idea behind them, but somehow just couldn't quite get them to make the leap into actual reality. "This place is for making 3-D films? Why on earth would they have something like this at an _hotel?_ "

"No, not 3-D films," John rubbed a hand over his face. "He said _holography_ , not film," he turned to his friend and flatmate. "Didn't you?"

"Three-dimensional holographics," Sherlock nodded slowly. "The owners of this facility intend to produce life-like reproductions of people; of the guests they hope to have staying her at the hotel, if the excessive volume and specific grouping and positioning of the cameras is anything to go by."

" _But_ ..." Sarah stared around again in slack-jawed horror. "Can they really do that? Can they do that _here?_ "

"There's going to be some huge computer processing power nearby if so," Sherlock fiddled with several controls until the main screen flicked on displaying a dark grey background with a matrix of bronze lines across the entire screen. A dialogue box appeared in the centre of the touch-screen asking whether to create a new file, load and existing file, import a file or 'Add to library'.

Opting to open an existing file, a database search-index appeared, offering a long list of file names. The names were mostly technical, but there were several that were names of actual people. _Lucien Fesch_ stuck out among them. Opening the file, Sherlock sat back and waited to see what was going to happen.

Clearly a test operation, the form of Signor Fesch appeared on the screen in front of them. A flashing line at the side of the image asked if they required full-body imaging.

"Let's say _yes_ , shall we?" Sherlock stabbed at the screen.

Instantly, a square section of floor in the empty side of the room glowed vaguely neon-blue. There were a number of light-emitting points arranged around the square in a roughly cuboid formation. The light grew brighter and all three of them watched with some fascination as the perfectly solid and three-dimensional personage of Lucien Fesch appeared, standing mutely before them. The man's appearance was so real and so clearly detailed, Sarah could even see the faintly raised stitching on his tie.

"But how on earth are they able to do this?" John walked across and reached out to touch what would have been the Italian's arm. Despite looking as solid as everything else in the room, John's fingertips fell right through the image. "And more to the point, why?"

"Once they've captured someone's perfect image, the holograph can be manipulated to do whatever they want it to do; move where it needs to be moved, be seen with anyone else, in any scenario that might be desired," Sherlock was clearly impressed. "Just think of the blackmail opportunities alone."

"And the _House of Sand_ is to be marketed as a new playground for the ultra-wealthy," Sarah shook her head. "No wonder they've spared no expense to get this place up and running so quickly, or to bring in the very best of designers and architects," her tone was acidic. "They must have been laughing at all of us."

"It's nothing personal, of course," Sherlock returned to his investigation of the complicated control deck in front of him, locating the controls for sound. A box opened on the screen asking him to input his 'speech' parameters. In an experiment, Sherlock typed in the words _Hello, Sarah,_ and hit 'Enter'.

Across the room, the incredibly handsome holograph of the debonair Lucien Fesch smiled brilliantly and spoke.

"Hello, Sarah."

It was uncanny. It sounded exactly as though the man himself was in the room with them. The virtuosity of the duplication was such that it would be almost impossible for anyone to tell if they were speaking with the real person or the reproduced version. A chill sensation began to make itself known in Sarah's stomach.

"Would it be possible to pre-record a hologram to talk on a teleconference call?" she asked slowly, almost dreading the answer.

"Not the easiest thing but certainly possible, especially if one knew the probable contents of the conversation. Any lag between question and answer would simply be put down to a slow internet connection or bandwidth problems," Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "You believe you may already have experienced a holographic conversation with someone?" he paused, observing her staring at Fesch's holographic image. "With him?"

Nodding, Sarah felt her skin prickle. "Lucien Fesch and I teleconferenced while I was at your parent's house," she said. "I thought then he was very handsome but serious and that the conversation suddenly went oddly flat for a moment ... seeing this image brought it all back to mind," she shook her head. "If they can produce such high quality holography involving the people coming to stay at the hotel ... this could be incredibly dangerous."

"Yeah, but what I don't understand is the technical aspect of all this," John joined the conversation. "Don't holographs need an awful lot of light to be recorded properly? Special lights? Like in a studio?"

Swivelling around in his chair, Sherlock linked his fingers again. He nodded, as if the very same thought had already been asked and answered.

"Usually, it does. Unless these people have made some extraordinary advances in holographic technology ..." he stopped abruptly. "Of _course_!" his eyes widened. " _Specular reflection!_ It's the reason for all the gold," Sherlock grimaced at the sluggishness of his comprehension. "It's why everything is so shiny and sparkling, why there's so much light in all the rooms, why the balconies are so wide ... it explains _everything!_ "

"It does?" Sarah sounded dubious.

"The sheer amount of gold and reflective surfaces throughout the hotel," Sherlock glanced between Sarah and John, expecting to see some glimmer of understanding. He groaned at its absence. "All metals reflect any direct source of light to a certain extent," he explained using his hands to expound, as if he were speaking to five-year-olds. "The reason there's so much gold and other metals around the place, with each surface no doubt carefully textured so all light reflects back at an extremely specific and highly precise angle. Specular reflection reflects all light at the same angle, the sheer volume of each room's reflective properties more than sufficient to supply the illumination needs of the holographic cameras!" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Brilliant!"

John looked less than impressed. "They're gangsters and murderers, Sherlock," he muttered. "Not exactly something to be thrilled about."

"Gangsters and murderers who know how to use phenomenal science," the younger Holmes looked arch.

John raised his eyebrows. "Okay; I'll give you the science is phenomenal," he shrugged. "But I guarantee these people aren't doing all this to add to the happiness of humanity."

"It is just for blackmail, do you think?" Sarah couldn't take her eyes off the faintly glowing figure of Lucien Fesch. "Or is there something even more insidious going on here?"

"As in?" John looked around the room for alternative exits. There had to be at least one other door but the darkness made it hard to see anything.

"If I spoke to a hologram of Fesch, what's to say they couldn't make equally convincing ones of famous sports people, entertainers, actors ...?"

"Captains of industry, Politicians, religious and social leaders," Sherlock nodded. "I believe you've hit on the primary function of this installation," he said. " _Forged people_ ," he nodded seriously. "My brother will be pleased," he added, activating the small black phone he'd brought with him in the canvas bag. There was a moment's wait. "Tell him I have the information he wants and we need an extraction point. Tell him we'll only have the one chance to do this safely," he finished, ending the call.

"And now we know what we know, I think it's high time we all got the hell out of Dodge," John gave up looking for an exit. "How do we get hold of Lillian without raising an alarm?"

"You told everyone you wanted to take another walk down the beach after dark to get some pictures of the hotel all lit up," Sarah reminded him. "Why don't we wait until full dark and then make our way down the beach?"

"We'll need a diversion," Sherlock pursed his mouth, thinking. He picked up the phone again. "Tell him we need fireworks at the same time," he said. "Or some other form of distraction."

"But that isn't going to stop Fesch and the Mancusos from coming along with us," Sarah shook her head. "Wouldn't it just be easier to hang on until tomorrow as planned and leave without anyone being the wiser?"

"No!" John and Sherlock spoke simultaneously.

"Mycroft was quite adamant that neither you or our mother are to be here a second longer than absolutely necessary," Sherlock inhaled deeply. "He mentioned something along the lines of banishment from the Kingdom should I leave you here," he wrinkled his nose. "Best not upset him too much; I'm sure you understand how nervous incipient fathers can be."

Sarah threw him a weary but highly sceptical glance.

"Then we'll need a distraction back here at the hotel at the time we take a walk down the beach," John frowned. "Something to make sure nobody wants to leave the place and follow us," he paused, looking at his friend. "You didn't happen to bring along any explosives and a timer fuse by chance?"

"Leave the distraction to me, John," Sherlock nodded. "I'll make sure you are the least of anyone's concerns when you head down the beach. Now all we have to do is make sure my mother joins you without any fuss."

"As long as we can separate her from Franco Mancuso," Sarah grinned. "And I need my laptop; I left it in my room."

Sherlock frowned. "Can't you leave it? I'm sure Mycroft would be entirely delighted to buy you half-a-dozen of the things."

"I don't care about leaving my clothes and things, as I didn't bring all that much, but I'd really like to have my laptop if I can get it; I have a lot of stuff on there I'd rather not leave for other people to get hold of," she raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Oh, very well," Sherlock made a face. "In which case, I suggest you call my mother and tell her you're feeling unwell and need a lie-down. That way, she'll come racing to your side and at least we'll have solved half of the problem."

John was already at the door to the holography lab. The streak of bright light that entered once the door was opened even slightly showed just how accustomed they'd all become to the room's dimness.

"Seems to be all-clear," he spoke softly. "Let me have a quick recce before we all head for the lift."

As they waited, Sherlock made use of the few seconds by powering down all the things he'd switched on when they entered. "I'd enjoy being able to experiment with this facility properly one day," he mused. "The things I could do with a hologram of my brother ..."

About to make a semi-sarcastic retort, Sarah let the words die unspoken as John came dashing back in through the door. "Two of Mancuso's heavies are in the corridor on patrol," he said. "They might be coming here or the other suite, I can't say."

"And we can't take the risk," Sherlock was already on his feet. " _Quick_ , there's a fire exit over here."

"Where?" John sounded puzzled. "I looked before."

"Directly behind where the hologram stood," he said. "You probably didn't see it because of the glow."

"Right then," John ran lightly to the well-hidden door, thankful it opened easily enough and without sound. "Let's get out of here."

The door led onto a sandstone staircase, the outer wall of which was entirely glass. Even though the best of the afternoon was behind them, the brightness of the closing afternoon still had them all squinting in the sudden light. Given that they were on the top floor, there were four longish flight of steps. John went first, holding one of Sarah's hands; descending multiple flights of stairs was not easy when your centre of balance was out of whack. Sherlock followed close behind, watchful for the smallest suggestion of a wobble. They made it to the bottom in relatively good shape without seeing anyone and, hopefully, without being seen. It was well the hotel was not yet open or they were sure to have been spotted.

"I don't need to go and find Lillian," Sarah stopped still while she pulled out her own phone. "I said I'd call if I needed her," she added, finding the number she wanted.

"Hello, Lillian?" Sarah's face relaxed as she heard the older woman's voice. "I'm feeling suddenly rather tired and I'm going to have a lie-down. I'm heading back to our suite and thought you should know," she paused, waiting for the response she knew would be forthcoming.

"What? Oh, you really don't _need_ to come, you know," Sarah rolled her eyes at the play-acting. "Well, alright. If you _insist_ ... Okay. See you there," she finished, turning to the two men. "We're meeting back at our suite," she said, looking at Sherlock. "I can keep your mother occupied for as long as necessary, but then we need to all be down by the beach when it gets dark, don't we?"

"Why not feel tired but able to recover by the time dinner's ready?" John raised his eyebrows, glancing at them both. "If we all meet up again for dinner, it's going to be getting pretty dark by that time, surely?"

"Sunset at this latitude will be approximately five o'clock," Sherlock's blue eyes scanned the sky carefully. "The evening's already drawing in, so we should have full-dark by seven tonight," he nodded in satisfaction. "John, you need to go and keep things moving for the next couple of hours; just do some more of whatever it was you were doing on the beach before," he gestured, long pale fingers wiggled expressively in the air. "Just keep everyone reassured that all is well and that Sarah was only feeling a little tired but will be back on her feet for dinner. Once you've eaten, remind Mancuso of your desire to ..." he paused, digging swiftly into his jacket pocket where the little phone vibrated silently in his hand.

"Yes?" There were several seconds of intense listening. "Excellent. We will make our plans accordingly," he looked across at Sarah. "Tell Mycroft all is well," he ended the call and shoved the phone away.

"Our escape route is prepared. We need to be on the beach, headed down towards San Vincenzo by eight-thirty tonight. There will be a firework display to provide a reason for everyone to head that way."

"But what about you?" John sounded concerned. "And how are we going to make sure Fesch and the Mancuso entourage don't decide to come with us?"

"Leave that to me, John," Sherlock flashed a grin. "Just make sure you and Sarah and my mother are heading down the beach once the fireworks begin. Keep walking no matter what else you might see. Mycroft will have his people waiting for you and will get you to safety. If I don't join you tonight, then I'll see you back in London tomorrow."

"You're not coming with us?" Sarah felt an immediate pang of concern. "You're not going to do something dangerous, are you? I'd really rather not have that on my conscience if you don't mind."

Sherlock turned to meet her eyes and paused. "Stay safe," he said lightly. "Mycroft's instructions."

###

"But my dear, are you quite sure?" Lillian frowned sounding concerned as she watched Sarah kick off her shoes and lie down on the edge of the bed; it had been easy to spot the group of cameras on her way into the room and Sarah was taking no chances.

"I wondered if you might be overdoing things, but I realise you were simply doing your job," Lillian added. "But if you're feeling the slightest bit unwell, then I really should call for a doctor."

Lillian, I'm _fine_ ," Sarah patted the older woman's hand, pulling her down to sit on the bed with her. "Sherlock's here," she spoke very softly but also quickly, unwilling to have any exclamations or upsets to deal with. "The people who are running the hotel are involved in some very serious criminal activities and you and I need to leave before they find out John and Sherlock and I have discovered their secret."

Lillian was silent for a moment, clearly digesting what she'd heard before proving herself without a doubt to be the mother of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes.

"Franco Mancuso was boasting to me about how clever his sons have been in creating this place," she spoke in a low tone, almost a whisper. "He wouldn't be drawn on the specifics, but it was very clear he knows something underhand is going on here," she added, narrowing her eyes. "He did make mention of magicians with smoke and mirrors, if that makes any sense at all?"

It made perfect sense.

"Then they're all in it, all the Mancusos," Sarah felt her back relaxing as she lay still on the bed, not having realised just how tense and painful her muscles had become with all the walking around. "We'll go down for dinner and afterwards, we'll take a little stroll down the beach while John does his night-photography stuff. Sherlock's going to organise some sort of distraction so that we can head towards San Vincenzo without fear of being caught and Mycroft's people will be waiting for us on the beach," she said. "They'll make sure we get home safely. We'll have to leave our bags behind which is why I wanted to meet you back here. Did you bring anything that you just don't want to lose? I intend to take my laptop."

Sitting up straighter, Lillian thought. "A pair of old earrings I rather like, but nothing in terms of clothes or anything," she half-smiled. "Just as well I took your advice and packed light."

"Then make sure you have anything you want with you before we head down for dinner ... which is when, actually? Did they tell you before you came up here?"

"There's to be a semi-formal dinner back down in the atrium at seven-thirty. Apparently, we're to have some entertainment, though what exactly wasn't specified."

"Good, that's good," Sarah nodded. "We have to be on the beach, heading down towards the town by no later than eight-thirty. Sherlock said there would be fireworks to give us an excuse to walk in that direction and all we have to do is keep going until we're picked up by the people Mycroft sent to get us. Hopefully, it should all be fairly straightforward."

"And in the meantime," Lillian checked her wristwatch. It was just after half-past four, "why don't you actually rest and have a little nap if you can?" Lillian stood and drew a light cover over Sarah as she lay on the bed. "If there's to be fun and games later this evening, then you need to be as rested as possible," she said, finding the remote control by the bed that closed the luxurious curtains at the wide window. "I'll just be in there," Lillian pointed to the main living area of the suite. "Call if you need anything, my dear, but just close your eyes and rest if nothing else."

Her back was already feeling much more relaxed and warm against the softness of the thick mattress and Sarah realised a few minutes respite wouldn't do any harm. Even though she wasn't the slightest bit sleepy, a bit of a lie-down wouldn't hurt.

"Don't forget to get your earrings," she said, pulling the rug up around her ears and closing her eyes. Not that she'd be sleeping, of course.

###

It was warm and she was floating somewhere that made her feel so comfortable and at ease. There was sound; muffled and distant but becoming clearer by the second.

"Time to wake up, my dear," Mycroft's voice was gentle and indulgent. "Time to get up and get ready," he smiled down at her as she stretched languorously beneath the blanket.

Stroking his fingertips across the curve of her cheekbone, he smiled again, leaning forward to brush his lips across her forehead. "Wake up, darling," he murmured. "Wake up." Blinking several times, Sarah felt happy and stretched again.

"Have a nice dream, did we?" smiling, Lillian lifted her hand from Sarah's arm and stood, adjusting her scarf. "If we're actually going to go down to dinner, then we should be making a move shortly," she said checking her watch. "It's seven-fifteen already."

Her eyes bleary with sleep, Sarah shook herself more or less alert. "Is it?" she rubbed a hand over her face. "I must have been more tired than I realised," she pulled the cover away and swung her feet to the floor. "I'd better wash my face at least."

The mirrored walls in the enormous ensuite told her she looked fine; a little on the pale side perhaps and that her hair needed a comb, but other than that, her exterior didn't give away the suddenly jumpy sensation she felt inside. Taking a deep breath as she rolled the heaviness of her hair up into a glossy _chignon_ , pinning it tightly at her nape. A quick gloss of lipstick and she was as done as she intended to be.

Deciding that, apart from her laptop, the only other thing she needed was the long cardigan she'd brought. Everything else, the few bits and pieces in her overnight bag, the bag itself, could all be jettisoned. Stepping back into the main room, Sarah watched as Lillian pulled off the leather address tag she'd had buckled around the handle of her case.

"Don't want any unfriendly visitors, do we?" she smiled conspiratorially.

Sarah felt her stomach sink. This was something she'd not considered.

Once they'd made their unplanned departure, it would be obvious to everyone her and Lillian's and John's involvement was far from innocent. But nobody knew Lillian's real name, or John's, even though he'd taken the part of Robby Muir.

But she herself was very much a known quantity. Everyone in the industry knew who she was and that she lived in London. What if ... _what if_ someone came looking for her? What if the Mancusos were somehow able to find her in the future? Would Mycroft have considered this? It was too late now to change the plan, but she'd need Mycroft to come up with a contingency plan, just in case.

In the meantime, they had exactly one excruciating hour of dinner to get through before John led them all out onto the beach in the dark. Sarah inhaled hard. They could do this. _She_ _could do this_.

Leaving their suite behind them, her laptop bag hanging from her shoulder, Sarah led Lillian back down to the tree- and bird-filled atrium in which they'd had lunch. It had been a wondrous place in the pale sunlight of a winter's day, but at night ... the entire scene was breathtaking.

 _Lights_. Lights everywhere ... Great golden garlands, huge swags of glimmering, shining radiance hanging from the glass walls, from the branches of the trees themselves. The edge of the pathway was illuminated with tiny globes, turning everything into a glorious illuminated fairy grotto. It was Christmas and New Year and every party she could recall, all rolled into one. Despite herself and despite the knowledge she now had of this place, Sarah was dumbstruck.

" _Ah_ , _Signora Lawrence!_ " not even Lucien Fesch's brilliant smile could compete with the gallery of luminosity around them. "I am so happy to see you again. Are you feeling better?"

Sarah was relieved she could at least be truthful about this. "Much better, Signor," she accepted his arm with some reluctance as he escorted her to the formal dining table. The idea that she might well have been taken in by a hologram of the man giving her an unpleasant queasy feeling. "I had not realised how tired I was, but a brief sleep and I am completely recovered and very much looking forward to this wondrous experience," she laughed, raising her hands and staring around.

"Nothing but the very best for our guests," Fesch's smile continued as he seated her in an easy-to-reach chair at the corner of the table. John was already there, a glass of pale wine in his hand.

"Bit swish, hey?" the Australian accent was back with a vengeance. He watched as Lillian took a seat opposite Sarah.

"This is certainly the most extraordinary venue in which I've ever dined," the Holmes matriarch swivelled around in an attempt to take in the sheer scale of the illumination. "I'd say it was like Oxford Street at Christmas, but even that would be a shallow comparison," her eyes were wide with admiration.

"Do you like our little performance?" Franco and Soren Mancuso arrived, the latter with a stunningly beautiful woman hanging on his arm. "My wife, Magdalena," Soren introduced them all before pulling out a chair for his wife next to John while he took the seat at the very head of the table, between Lillian and Sarah. Franco sat on the far side of Lillian, clearly eager to continue the conversation that had been interrupted earlier. Ottavio Pisani and Matteo Mancuso took their seats further down the table, each with a glamourous and fabulously gowned woman at their side.

Sarah and Lillian shared a brief but meaningful glance.

"I am very pleased you are able to rejoin us, signora," Soren waited until everyone had a glass of champagne in front of them, including Sarah. Lifting his glass, he proposed a toast. "To the future of our little venture," he grinned widely. "May all our innovations bring us the rewards we desire," his smile expanded as he raised his glass and sipped.

Though she'd not wanted any alcohol before now, Sarah felt the definite need for a fix and took her own sip of the bubbly. It wasn't bad, but not something she'd want a lot of.

"Just to remind everyone I'm going to be out on the beach later, taking photos of this place all lit up," John was also staring around at the magnificent light display. "This is a ripper show you've got here," he marvelled openly, not missing for a second how Mancuso's smile widened even more. _Good_. The more everyone was at their ease, the less suspicious anyone would become.

All they had to do was get through dinner.

"I see you have brought your work with you, Signora Lawrence," Magdalena Mancuso observed Sarah's laptop. "Do you never rest?"

Thankful for the opening, Sarah grinned ruefully and shook her head. "Not when I have such a tight window of opportunity," she said, laying the compact computer on her lap. "I realise this is the height of bad manners, but I was hoping to use this opportunity to get some quotes from everyone," she said, opening a blank document. "Anything you feel your future patrons might like to hear about the hotel or its running operations," she looked around as a bevy of waiters appeared with large serving plates of _antipasta_ and more bottles of rich red wine.

"Business before pleasure, eh, signora?" Franco Mancuso sat back while a waiter unfolded the crisp white napkin and laid it deftly across his lap. "Always the professional; I like that," he grinned around, his gaze coming to rest on Lillian. "You must let me show you the waterfall room at night," he smiled and winked. "It is the most romantic of places."

"I'm afraid Sarah is not the only professional on the team," Lillian smiled diplomatically but with just a hint of reproach. "Business before pleasure," she arched her eyebrows and looked prim.

Sarah found she had absolutely no appetite at all. Whether it was because she was too tired to feel hungry or because she knew what was coming and it was making her nervous, she had no idea. Picking at the odd mouthful in between sips of mineral water, she was intensely relieved when the sound of a grand piano began to echo through the vaulting enclosure. Within moments, a gowned and very theatrical woman appeared, making it clear she was waiting for silence. Once she had it, she began to sing the haunting Villa-Lobos aria _Cantelina_. The acoustics in the atrium must have been very cleverly planned, because the woman's voice filled every inch of space.

At least it gave Sarah a genuine excuse not to make conversation.

Dinner continued between further arias, as the party was treated to Mozart and Puccini and a portion of slightly overdone Rossini.

Finally, the plates were empty, the singer had been applauded away and coffees and liquors were about to be served.

"Before I get too comfortable, I need to go and get those night shots I wanted," John leaned across the table towards Sarah, making sure his comment was loud enough to be heard by everyone. "Better do it now before I have any of the good stuff," he grinned, rising to his feet, camera in hand.

"And I certainly want to see this place all lit up so magnificently," Sarah pushed herself to her feet, quite naturally sliding the laptop back in its bag and hanging it from her shoulder.

"Oh yes," Lillian waved a glass of what seemed to be becoming her favourite tipple, the bubbly wine almost gone. "But I'd like a top up before I brave the cool air, I think."

The nearest waiter smiled and approached with the appropriate bottle.

"I think this is a very good idea," Soren Mancuso also stood, exactly as Sarah feared. It was not going to be easy to get away from them on the beach, even though it was fully dark outside, with lanterns in the sand to mark the high-tide level.

Magdalena Mancuso and the other women declined the idea of a late stroll along the beach; apparently, Louboutin shoes did not take well to damp, salty sand. Matteo Mancuso and Ottavio Pisani clearly felt the same way and remained in their seats, raising their glasses in salute.

Leading the way with his camera in his hand, John kept a bright grin on his face, hoping to hell that Sherlock knew what was going on and that they weren't all going to be stuck here for the rest of the night with a bunch of gangsters who might realise something was going on.

Striding down almost to the water's edge, he turned and stood, drinking the sight in. He allowed himself to marvel for a few seconds; it was a stupendous piece of architecture, and the gloriously-lit atrium looked like some kind of exotic faerie palace. Sarah wandered in his general direction, while Lillian stared into the dark ocean. The Mancusos, father and son, held glasses of champagne and smoked cigars.

"Beautiful," John muttered, lifting the camera to his eye and beginning to do his thing.

Almost at that exact moment, there were a series of fairly loud bangs in the air from further down the beach, as the sky behind the group lit up with brilliant fireworks; fountains and starbursts of colour flaming up into the night sky.

"Oh, how lovely," Lillian turned her face to watch the spectacular display.

A couple of the fireworks appeared to fall in the sand dunes to their left, almost too close for comfort.

" _Damn fools_ ," Soren Mancuso stopped looking pleased with himself as a deep frown carved his face into alarming shadows. "I will have to speak to the Chief of Police about such reckless behaviour. If there is any damage to our property, I will demand full recompense!"

The fireworks continued and John led the group a little further down the beach as if to get a clearer view of the activity.

It was then that two of the recently fired pyrotechnics seemed to veer off-course and instead of flying high to explode on a burst of golden sparkles, looped badly and fell directly towards the hotel itself.

"My god!" Franco Mancuso dropped both his champagne glass and his cigar. "They're going over the roof!"

The Italian's words were prescient as both scarlet fireballs feel directly behind the hotel itself.

"Quick! Check the place for fire! I'll get the staff!" Soren Mancuso was already running back towards the House of Sand at the exact moment a single pine tree to the far end of the installation burst into flame. One of the fireworks had landed in its wind-dried branches.

Franco Mancuso turned to Lillian, patting her hand. "Do not worry my dear signora, all will be well, but excuse me for a short while," and he jogged back up the beach after his son.

John, Lillian and Sarah were finally alone.

"Right, let's go," John grabbed the hands of the two women, pulling them along the beach with him as fast as they could comfortably go, hugging the dunes as much as he possibly could. The firework display was still going, providing glimpses of the beach ahead in flashes of infernal brightness. The streetlights of San Vincenzo seemed much closer now and John realised the sand beneath their feet was giving way to hard-packed gravel.

The pyrotechnics stopped.

In almost the same second, a series of cars pulled up to the edge of the dunes, red and blue lights flashing, sirens blaring.

"Put your hands up!" The voice was loudspeaker-assisted. "Stand still and put your hands up!"

Apparently, they were being arrested.


	18. Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

The next few minutes were a mad blur of bright flashing lights, of noisy car-engines and of people shouting. Sarah found herself being guided, surprisingly carefully, away from Lillian and John, towards a big white ambulance. _Ambulance?_ Was someone hurt? Did they think _she_ was hurt?

"Please, signora, lie down on the bed and relax," a female medic whose English was very good urged Sarah towards the padded trolley-bed that had been brought out of the ambulance and stood empty, waiting for its passenger.

"I'm not bloody lying down on anything until I know what's happening to the people who are with me," Sarah pulled her arm free. "Where are my friends?"

"Signora, please," the woman was slightly more insistent, turning to beckon an associate to help.

"If you try and force a pregnant woman into doing anything she doesn't want to do, then you'd better damn well be prepared for the consequence," Sarah pulled away again. "John! _Lillian!_ "

"Over here!" At least John was nearby, even though she couldn't actually see him, surrounded as she was by a mill of uniformed bodies. "Everything's going to be fine, just do whatever they tell you to do until we're away from this place," he called back. "I'll be with you in a tick."

"I'm here, darling," Lillian weaved an uncertain pathway towards her around several police officers, a half-empty champagne glass still clutched in her hand. "Are you alright?"

"Signoras, _please_ ," the female medic was beginning to look a little on the frustrated side. "I need for you to be inside," she gestured at the ambulance. "We must leave very soon."

"I'll go if Lillian comes with me," Sarah felt unexpectedly weary. Everything was suddenly just a little too heavy for comfort. The well-padded trolley-bed was beginning to look very tempting.

"Buona. _Rapidamente_ ," the medic nodded, helping Sarah stretch out comfortably before wrapping her in a heavy cotton blanket and gently strapping her in. Moments later and the two women were in the ambulance and the engine started. Such was Sarah's abrupt exhaustion that she found her eyes closing, even though she had no idea what they were doing, where they were going or why they were being arrested. As for why there was even an ambulance present ... the gentle swaying of the vehicle was the final persuader. She slept.

###

It was the brightness of the light that had her blinking awake. That, and the general level of noise not ten feet from where she lay. There was something sticking in the back of her hand and she realised she was on a hospital bed in a private room with the door open.

"Are you feeling alright, my dear?" From a chair to one side of the bed, Lillian sounded concerned as she studied Sarah's waking face. "You went to sleep very quickly and very deeply back in the ambulance and they wanted to check all was well with you before we went home. The doctor said you were probably exhausted and dehydrated. They put you on a drip to be on the safe side in case there was any shock."

Feeling more awake by the second, Sarah eased herself into a sitting position on her elbows so that she could look around the room more easily.

"Where are we?" leaning over on one side, she rubbed her free hand over her face. "What was with the police and all those cars and sirens? What on earth am I doing lying on a hospital bed? God, what _time_ is it?"

"There now," Lillian stood and fussed with the bed-coverings. "It's a little after four in the morning," she said. "We're in a hospital in Grosseto and we're only here until you get the all-clear. John's here too; he's just gone to get some coffee. They thought you'd be waking up about now ... the doctors simply didn't want to take any chances. What with you being so far advanced in your pregnancy, that's all."

"I thought we were all being arrested," Sarah swung her legs cautiously over the side of the bed and inspected the neatly-placed cannula taped to the back of her left hand. Her eyes followed the thin plastic tube up to a nearly empty bag of clear solution hanging from a large hook above her head.

"Nah," John rounded the corner into the doorway, hands full with two cups of coffee. "This way, the Mancusos will hear that we were all taken away by the local police at the same time their hotel was being raided," he handed one of the cups to Lillian. "Do you want this one?" he asked, offering Sarah the other cup. "I can easily get myself another. It's decent coffee too," he grinned. "One of the benefits of an Italian hospital, I guess."

The smell of coffee almost turned Sarah's stomach. "I'll stick to water, I think," she made to reach for the water jug, but John beat her to it.

"Looks like you've been overdoing things just a bit," he said evenly, pouring her a beaker of cool water. "I should have seen it for myself and made you stop," he frowned and shook his head. "I should have seen it."

"Not that it would have made the smallest difference," Sarah took the drink and made short work of it, relief obvious on her face as her thirst subsided. She exhaled slowly. "And there's no harm done," she smiled. "Plus I had a pretty decent sleep out of it all," she added yawning, then paused. "La Casa di Sabbia is being raided?"

"At almost the same time we were being picked up from the beach, several special force teams of the _Carabinieri_ were descending on the House of Sand, collecting the Mancuso brothers, Lucien Fesch and everyone else of note," he looked relieved. "Our gangster friends were all a bit otherwise engaged at the time, trying to make sure Sherlock's little diversion wasn't going to burn their investment to the ground."

"Where is Sherlock?" Sarah looked startled. "Is he alright? Have you seen him?"

John patted one of his jacket pockets. "He texted," he said. "Told me all was well and he'd meet us back in London. He said he was getting a lift."

"To London?" Lillian frowned. "Who on earth would give him a lift to London?" she raised her eyebrows, clearly puzzled.

"I learned long ago not to enquire too deeply about Sherlock's methods," John's grin was back. "But he said he was fine and I believe him."

"So if we're not really being detained, then who organised all ... _oh_ ," Sarah stopped as she realised this whole scheme must have been Mycroft's doing. Somewhat dramatic, but at least it got them all off the hook with the Mancusos. She'd need to send Fesch a polite email saying she was not in the habit of being arrested while on a commission and that she'd prefer not to be associated with the project any longer. Or maybe it would sound more plausible if it came from Milton Ajax, as her agent. Either way, Mycroft had bailed them out of a nasty situation.

Bailed _her_ out, truth be told. Even after he'd asked her not to go in the first place. Even after she'd told him to go to hell and that she was going anyway. Sarah closed her eyes. Taking this contract had been a mistake and it was only through luck and Mycroft Holmes that it hadn't had a terrible ending. She'd probably end up apologising and he'd probably end up being unbearably smug about it all.

The sound of footsteps out in the passageway heralded the arrival of a doctor, complete with a stethoscope tucked into the breast pocket of his white lab coat and an earnest expression on his face.

" _Ah, mio caro giovane donna. Ora come ti senti?_ ," the man paused, before smiling and shaking his head. "My apologies," he said, digging out a blood-pressure cuff from the bedside drawer. "Forgive me; I forget that you are English," he smiled again. "I am Doctor Leo Zanotti and I specialise in pre-natal care. Are you feeling better? Do you have any pain or discomfort?"

"Much better and no pain at all," Sarah resisted speaking in Italian as she knew both John and Lillian would want to know what was going on. "I only felt very tired and sleepy, but now I'm feeling fine again," she said, knowing as she said it that she really was feeling much more lively than at the beach. The cuff was mildly uncomfortable as Zanotti pumped it tight.

"Your blood pressure is a fraction low," the doctor pursed his mouth expressively. "Though your baby is very active and growing fast now. This time can be especially difficult for you given your height; your blood has further to go and this can leave you dizzy and very tired," he nodded, the smile returning. "But you are young and healthy; you need some good solid food, some steak and sea-fish and the occasional glass of decent red wine," he patted Sarah on the arm. "You don't have long to go now so you need to build yourself up as much as you can for these last few weeks."

"And you're clearing Ms Lawrence for travel, for flying, Doctor Zanotti?" John stood, his eyes watching the Italian doctor's face. Clearly Zanotti already knew of John's medical background.

"Given that the lady flew only yesterday with no ill-effects, and further given that you will be returning with her Doctor Watson, and that the flight is so brief, then I have no problem certifying that Ms Lawrence is okay to fly home today," he smiled again and nodded, signing his name with a flourish on a file on a nearby side table just as John dispatched a brief phone text.

Zanotti pressed the bedside buzzer and asked the responding nurse to remove the cannula from Sarah's hand.

"We can go?" Lillian looked between the two men, a hopeful expression on her face.

Zanotti smiled and gestured the older woman to the nearest window where he pointed to a large and very well-lit space at the edge of the city, less than a mile away. "Aeroporto di Grosseto," he smiled. "I am told you have transportation waiting for you there. If you wish to go now, I am certain you would be in London in time for breakfast," he turned to meet Sarah's eyes. "Or you can go back to sleep for a few more hours and rest some more?" he raised an eyebrow.

"I'm really feeling so much better, Doctor Zanotti," Sarah slid off the bed and found her feet. "After the last twenty-four hours, I think I'd really prefer to be at home and sleeping in my own bed."

"Then you are quite free to go," the man lifted his hands. "Remember what I said though; that you need to build yourself up over the next few weeks," he waved a finger. "Simple peasant food and a little wine," he slid his hands in his pockets. "You will be perfectly fine."

"Thank you," Sarah smiled in relief.

"Then let's go, shall we?" John motioned Sarah to sit back on the bed while he slid her shoes on her feet. Lillian looked around, ensuring nothing was being left behind, just as John grabbed Sarah's laptop, slinging it over his own shoulder with the Sony camera.

There were cabs waiting in a rank just outside the hospital and the three of them were on their way to Grosseto's airport ten minutes after Zanotti had given Sarah his blessing to leave.

"According to Anthea, we've been offered a lift back to London by the Italian Coastguard," John stared out of the window, obviously looking for something. " _Ah_ ," he paused, checking. "Here we go."

The cab stopped by the airport's main entrance, not that it was a terribly large operation but the big square building glowed white in the night. Once they were inside, John started looking around again, until he spotted a tall man in a very smart royal-blue uniform walking towards them. He was pushing a wheelchair.

" _Dottor Watson?_ " the man smiled cheerfully. "And the Signoras Holmes?"

"Yep, that's us," John shook the man's hand and relaxed.

"Then please to come with me," the man gestured Sarah towards the chair. "If you would be so kind, signora?"

Wanting to rebel loudly at the mere idea of needing to use such a contraption, Sarah sighed when she realised it would be much quicker and easier for everyone if she stayed quiet. Saying nothing, she got in the damn chair.

In less than two minutes, they had been signed through a private side door of the main airport hall, and were outside once more in the chill night air; dawn would not begin to show its face for at least another hour at this time of the year.

Walking them briskly across the brilliantly lit tarmac, the smell of high-octane fuel all around them, the clean lines of a small red-and-white jet became visible. The entire plane was illuminated from both inside and out. There were two men in the cockpit; they waved. The plane's steps were down and a bright interior light shone out into the night.

Helping Sarah from the wheelchair and up the steps into the jet's relatively plush twelve-seater interior, John was really glad that someone else had been responsible for organising this whole thing. Anthea was indeed worth her weight in rubies. After brief introductions and a quick review of essential safety protocols, everyone was strapped in. The take-off was short and swift and the small jet levelled-off very quickly. They would be in London

"I don't know about you two, but I'm completely buggered," John turned off the lights above his head and dragged a blanket over most of him. "I'm going to grab some shut-eye if I can," he yawned massively.

"Not sure if I'll sleep again so soon," Sarah spoke in the direction of John's huddled form. "But maybe Lillian might ..." There was a faint snore from Lillian's chair where she too had simply conked out. Sarah realised she was going to have a quiet journey.

###

It was only the repeated bumping of the plane landing and taxiing along the runway that roused Sarah from her doze. Despite being positive she wouldn't sleep again, it seemed her body has other ideas. Fortunately, the landing was relatively smooth and they had all been belted in.

Dawn was just lighting up the horizon around them as the small plane taxied towards the arrival area of London's City airport, smack in the heart of London and a hop, skip and a jump from Canary Wharf. A quick glimpse through the plane's window told her she was back in Britain. Tuscany had been on the cool side and a little grey, but the weather had also been fresh and relatively light. With an awareness of London all around her, Sarah smiled at the dark grey rain that lashed the plane's wings and anticipated what would undoubtedly be a chilling wind waiting for them beyond the doorway. She hoped they wouldn't be long waiting for transport; her only protection from the elements was the long cardigan she'd put on the previous night to wear to dinner at the House of Sand. Checking her watch, she saw that Zanotti had been quite correct in his estimate of their arrival; just gone seven-thirty in the morning. Her stomach rumbled at the idea of breakfast.

Instead of following the curve of the tarmac around and coming to a halt close to one of the airport arrival gates, the little plane continued its steady progress up beyond Gate Nine, directly up towards the far end of the concreted apron, towards a remote debarkation point. There was little to see this far up except a couple of smallish storage facilities and a few employee's cars parked safely out of the way.

The Italian jet whispered to a complete halt and the doorway from the cockpit opened as two men in the same smart blue uniform that had greeted them as Grosseto, greeted them now as the plane's door was undogged and swung inwards. A cold wind scented with rain and a whiff of avionic fuel filled the cabin.

By this time, both John and Lillian were wide awake and unbuckled, everyone taking their time to get down the small set of steps and then turning to assist Sarah. Not that she needed assistance, but the rain was slicking the steps and it seemed she was surrounded by people suddenly paranoid about her safety.

Thanking the pilots and looking around for any welcome committee that might be visible, Sarah stopped short at the sight of two large black cars easing their way to the side of the parked plane. Anthea leaped out of the first one holding a big umbrella over her head, walking immediately to stand beside Lillian, thus sheltering them both. She handed a second brolly to John.

The rear door of the second car opened mere seconds later, allowing a familiarly tall figure to emerge, likewise holding a large black umbrella over his head but carrying a voluminous and heavy shawl. In less than three strides he was at Sarah's side, swathing her in the thick woollen wrap before she had the slightest chance to speak. Only when she was thoroughly rugged-up and sheltered beneath his umbrella, did Mycroft pause his hands and raise his eyes to hers.

"You came," Sarah murmured, realising they hadn't spoken face-to-face since he had come down to the farmhouse with flowers and a tiny pair of blue bootees. Only a couple of weeks ago that now felt like months.

"I did," he agreed mildly. "You had no coat."

"I'm sorry," the words fell from her.

"For having no coat?" he sounded faintly perplexed.

"For not listening ... for going to San Vincenzo and ending up causing so much bother for everyone. It was not what I'd intended to happen. It was a mistake."

"We all make mistakes," Mycroft allowed the curve of a smile to relax his features. "I'd like to take you home."

"Your home or mine?"

His mouth curved a little more. "Yours, for now. I think you need some warmer clothes."

"I don't feel terribly cold," Sarah felt the weight of his scrutiny. Unthinking, she stepped forward as far as her bulging front permitted, leaning against his chest and resting her hands at his sides. Closing her eyes, she breathed him in feeling as if the ground beneath her feet was suddenly very solid. "I feel quite warm, in fact."

Mycroft found that his free arm fitted perfectly naturally around her shoulders.

"That's good," he tilted his head forward.

"Though I _am_ hungry," Sarah smiled against his coat.

"That's good too," his hand came up to rest fingertips on the side of her jaw. "Though it may be a little early for the Langham."

"I don't need the Langham," Sarah tilted her head back and mock-frowned.

"No, you don't, do you?" he was focusing so very hard on her face. "You'd be happy with home-made soup in a farmhouse kitchen."

"Yes," Sarah felt a smile change the shape of her mouth. He was going to kiss her.

"And you'd give everything up for your child, wouldn't you?" The blue of his gaze turned sapphire.

"If I had to, of course," she closed her eyes and leaned closer.

"Better get you out of the rain, then," there was amusement in his voice as she felt him step to her side, guiding an arm around her back and impelling her gently towards his car. Lillian was already sitting in the back seat and John waved from the other car as he and Anthea made their departure.

"John's off to Baker Street; Sherlock returned last night and I'm sure they have a fair amount of skulduggery to plan," his driver held the rear door open as Mycroft assisted Sarah carefully into the back seat of the Jaguar. "I suggest we go to your flat and organise something to eat while you get warmed up."

"The fridge is empty," Sarah shook her head. "I cleared out all the perishables before I went down to Kent."

"Then we must hope the pixies have been," Mycroft frowned at his mother. "You are exhausted, Mummy. You should try and sleep for a while; I doubt we'll be going anywhere immediately."

"Absolutely," Sarah stretched out her hand to rest her fingers on Lillian's wrist. "The spare room is all made up; I thought you might want to come and stay on my next visit to town."

"I'm perfectly awake, my dears," the older woman smiled, though there were shadows beneath her eyes and her eyelids seemed heavy. "Though a cup of tea would be lovely; I have a little headache."

 _Nothing to do with swilling back the best part of a bottle of champagne last night_ , Sarah kept a straight face as the Jaguar headed into the Blackwall Tunnel. Once they hit Victoria Park Road, they were nearly there, though by that time, Lillian was leaning hard against the side seat-rest, her eyes closed.

"Come along, Mother," Mycroft helped both women from the car. Fortunately the rain had eased for a moment but anyone could see the sky was promising more. "Inside."

The wide slate staircase seemed longer for some reason, but Sarah finally made it to the first floor where she suddenly realised her keys were in her bag down in Eynsford. About to close her eyes and kick the wall, she watched, almost dreamily, as Mycroft inserted a shiny new key into the main lock and twisted his fingers. A faint _click_ and the door was open before them.

"Those pixies again," he murmured, walking Lillian through the entranceway and straight down the hall of photographs, into the guest bedroom at the end, across from the kitchen. As Sarah had said, the room was all ready for its next occupant. Leaving his mother sitting on the bed, Mycroft came back out and waved generally in the direction of the bedroom.

"My mother might need a little assistance," he looked momentarily awkward. Nodding, Sarah went to see how she could help.

Lillian was sat tilted on the edge of the bed, a little pale and blinking owlishly.

"Come on you," Sarah brought her gently upright. "Let's get you comfortable." Removing the older woman's rather travel-weary jacket and dress, Sarah pulled back the thick duvet and helped her crawl into bed in her slip. By the time she'd finished closing the curtains and reached the door, Lillian was out like a light.

Yawning herself, Sarah closed the bedroom door and crossed the wide hallway into the kitchen. There were sounds of clinking china.

"I'm sorry I don't have any milk for your ..." Sarah stopped, watching in bafflement as Mycroft poured fresh milk into his tea.

"Pixies," he raised his eyebrows, sipped his tea and looked blameless.

Walking to the refrigerator, Sarah checked the inside. Though not filled by any means, there was more than sufficient for a couple of days.

"Pixies?" she threw him a sceptical glance. "In Islington?"

"Ubiquitous little things," he smiled easily. "They come up to London for Christmas, you know."

"Such an arse," Sarah smiled to herself as she poured her own cup of tea, stopping as she yawned again.

"You're as tired as my mother," Mycroft watched her face. "Might a nap be a good idea for you as well?" he asked carefully, paying his teacup a little more attention than it merited.

Rubbing her eyes and yawning some more, Sarah pondered the situation. Looking across at his face under the bright kitchen lights, she could see that Mycroft seemed on the weary side himself.

"When did you last get any proper rest?" she asked, enjoying the hot tea as it warmed her. "If I might make a personal comment, you look somewhat knackered."

"I have had ample rest," his smile was steady.

"And when did you last sleep?"

Pursing his mouth, Mycroft looked down at the remains of the tea in his cup. "Within the last few days, certainly," he raised his eyes to hers.

"Well, I had several hours last night, which means you're probably more tired than I am," Sarah finished her tea.

"A state with which I am very familiar," Mycroft folded his arms and peered down his nose at her. "However, advanced pregnancy is something of a new experience for you, so there is no contest," he paused, staring at her. "You really should try and get some sleep."

"I'm back in London for five minutes and you're already telling me what to do?" Sarah wasn't irritated but felt it important to tease him about the bossiness.

Mycroft's attempt to look severe was unconvincing. "I also have work to do," he said. "I may be called back to the office at any moment."

"Doubt it," Sarah shook her head slowly. "If that were the case, you'd have dropped us off her and vanished right away, not come in here to make tea," she pursed her mouth. "Try again."

"I am better able to manage my sleep requirements than you are at this time," he said, his voice softening. "Go and lie down."

"I'll have a snooze if you will," she yawned again. "My bed is long and wide and very, very comfortable," she offered. "I promise not to molest you."

He gave her a dubious look. "My mother might awaken and need assistance."

"Your mother is a sensible woman and can make a pot of tea and a sandwich as easily as either of us," Sarah folded her arms. "Are you going to force me to stay awake or are you going to be rational and come and have a rest?"

"It's very unlikely I'll be able to sleep," Mycroft noted the strength of her expression and sighed loudly. "Oh, very _well_. I'll try one of the sofas."

"No, you won't," Sarah caught his hand and pulled him along the hall behind her. Her bedroom was as she had left it, with a heavy knitted throw folded across the bottom of the bed. Letting go, she dragged the curtains closed against the growing morning light. "You might be more comfortable if you take off some of that," her finger sketched his outer clothing, as she turned, unwinding herself from the woollen wrap he'd given her at the airport. Peeling off her cardigan, she stood only in a loose top and stretchy cotton trousers. Kicking off her shoes and paying him no heed whatsoever, Sarah unfolded the knitted throw and pulled it up to cover everything.

"It's not really sleeping if you only lie on the top," she observed, sitting herself on the edge of the bed and working her way inward until she was able to lie in a comfortable position facing the edge. Her back ached and her eyes wanted to close. "Don't worry, I won't peek."

There was another exasperated sigh, followed by the soft swish of clothes being removed and the faint thud of shoes on the floor before. The soft cover was pulled back and the bed dipped as he crawled up and onto the far side of the mattress.

"You are in pain," coming for the region of his pillow, Mycroft's voice was quiet. "Do you need a doctor?"

"It's only my back," Sarah stretched down the bed, her muscles feeling better almost immediately. She felt her entire body starting to relax.

"How did Sherlock get home so quickly?" the question popped into her head from nowhere. "How did you know I had no coat? How did we manage to wangle a flight with the Italian coastguard?"

"I though the arrangement was that we should both try and sleep?"

"True," Sarah yawned so hard her jaw clicked. "But be warned that I'll expect answers later," she mumbled, as the cool softness of the pillow felt so unbelievably perfect against her face. Her body felt heavier than usual and her bed was so welcoming and ...

###

Her face felt dry and her eyes were gritty. There was a great warmth directly along her back and a strange weight on her front. Without moving more than her eyelids, Sarah assessed the situation.

In bed, in _her_ bed, yes. Had been asleep, also yes. The weight on her rounded belly was a long-fingered hand, partly spread. It was attached to an arm and further attached to the body currently pressing closely against her back, hence the great warmth. Not a body she immediately recognised.

Ah.

The sound of slow, deep breathing behind her head and the feeling of such unexpected shared body heat had her smiling. _Such an arse_. Closing her eyes, she went back to sleep.

###

There was darkness around the edges of the curtains when she finally woke, feeling energised and with a desperate need to go to the bathroom. The sensation of sharing a bed was gone and she knew without looking that she was alone in the room.

Easing her feet to the floor, Sarah felt a little stiff but no longer on the edge of narcolepsy. After using the bathroom to freshen up a little, she pulled out a clean and extraordinarily baggy sweatshirt from her wardrobe, dragging fingers through her hair in an admittedly pathetic attempt to compose herself. There were low voices in the kitchen.

"Greetings," she sidled into the warm and well-lit area, to see mother and son sitting at the round kitchen table, their hands wrapped around steaming mugs. "How long have I been asleep?"

"We thought you were going to give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money," Mycroft smiled easily, a small tuft of hair sticking up oddly at the side of his head. Clearly, he'd not been awake too long himself. The clock on the wall said it was a bit after five o'clock. _God_. She'd been out cold for almost nine hours.

"How are you feeling now, darling child?" Lillian was already on her feet, pouring another mug of tea. "Come and sit down and let me look at you."

"I'm perfectly fine," taking the mug, Sarah slid into a chair between the two of them. "All I've done is sleep for the last day and night."

"Seems we all needed a bit of time to ourselves," Lillian purposely avoided looking at either of them.

"I had a surprisingly refreshing sleep myself," Mycroft leaned over and moved a long strand of hair away from Sarah's face. "Your bed is extremely comfortable."

"It's always good to be able to come home to something comfortable," Sarah stared at him over the rim of her mug. "Speaking of which, what's the plan? Are we staying here for dinner or going somewhere else, or heading down to Eynsford straight away?"

Lillian put down her mug. "Dear girl, I really think you should take things easy, have another good sleep tonight and then we could drive down in the morning?" she raised her eyebrows at Mycroft.

"A perfectly sensible suggestion, Mummy," Mycroft turned back to Sarah. "Now tell me that you want to drive down tonight," he said, waiting.

"How did you .." Sarah stopped at his smile. It was precisely the thought in her mind. "It's only just five," she said, waving at the clock. "We could get cleaned up and be on the A20 within the hour," she said. "And after all the champagne and canapés at San Vincenzo, I could really fancy a pub dinner."

"Well, The Lion just down the road from Eynsford does a very nice dinner and it's right on the river," Lillian sniffed. "It's also quite pretty now that they've put the Christmas lights up; that could be nice, if you like."

Throwing her a cheerful grin, Sarah turned back to Mycroft. "It's up to you now," she said, almost teasingly. "What's the thinking in _your_ head?"

"Dear me, do I actually have a vote?" sipping his tea with great elegance and refinement, his eyes widened slightly.

"Good things come to those who wait," Sarah liked the way the blue of his gaze seemed brighter when he was at ease like this. "So tell me now if you're not up for dinner in a small country pub."

Giving her a relaxed yet long-suffering look, Mycroft fished in a jacket pocket for his phone. "Jack? Are you up for a run down to Kent this evening? If not, I'll drive myself." There was a faint scrabble of words at the other end of the conversation. "Fine, then. We're at the Lonsdale Square address. See you in thirty minutes." Ending the call, he swiped the screen again, this time to call Anthea, requesting that she book a table at The Lion in Farningham for seven-thirty, and that she arrange to have his father conveyed to the pub for that time. Making one last brief call to the farmhouse to ensure his father would be ready to go when his transport arrived.

"Well, ladies," he slid the phone away. "I'd say you have approximately twenty minutes to do whatever it is you would like to do before Jack arrives."

"Brilliant!" Leaving her mug, Sarah stood, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Fabulous organisation, Mycroft," she said, pulling Lillian's hand away from the table. "That's enough time for me to give your mother the full tour of the flat."

"But don't you want to get changed or something?" Lillian waited to see what Sarah had in mind.

"If there's time, could you braid my hair for me like you did before?" Sarah was already heading down the wide passageway toward the front of the apartment. "If we're eating in a pub, then I certainly don't intend to be overdressed. I want to do nothing more than relax tonight."

"Well, if there's nothing else you need to do, then come and sit in the kitchen while I do up your hair, and Mycroft can put all the fresh stuff from the fridge in a box so we can take it with us; no sense wasting perfectly good food."

Pointing the man himself to the kitchen pantry and a small stack of brown cardboard boxes on the floor, Sarah sat down with a handful of long hairgrips and bands as Lillian made swift work of her long hair. Finishing with the contents of the 'fridge in less than a minute, Mycroft watched the impromptu salon session, openly engrossed by the sight of long dark strands of silk being woven into a heavy braid.

"Beautiful," he murmured, as his mother tucked a few last strands inside the final twist of hair. He didn't specify the object of his admiration.

Sarah was explaining the subject of some of the framed photographs when the front door rang.

"Jack is as prompt as always," Mycroft assisted his mother into one of Sarah's thick tweed jackets before easing a long black coat over the younger woman's shoulders. Seconds later, they were heading down the stone staircase.

###

At the precise moment that Mycroft's driver rang the doorbell of Sarah's flat, Soren Mancuso walked out of the office of his _L'Avvocato Difensore_ , temporarily, a free man.


	19. Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen**

The Lion Hotel was a substantial Elizabethan building of red brick on the outside and well-worn oak floorboards and roaring fires on the inside. A number of the narrow internal walls had been removed, leaving cosy, tucked-away alcoves for family groups and some even more intimate nooks where tables sat only two. The various bars were well-stocked in local beers and the menu, though not as cosmopolitan as a London public house might have been, was nevertheless varied and with its own local elegance. Located on the junction of the main Farningham road and the River Darent, it was a popular spot with tourists in the summer months and a haven for locals during the dark nights of winter.

Bill was manifestly thankful to have both women back, even though he had only farewelled Sarah and his wife the morning before. That he also got to see his eldest son again and, almost more importantly, got to see his eldest _son so obviously concerned with_ _Sarah Lawrence_ , filled him with no little satisfaction.

"I expect you to tell me _everything_ ," he said quietly, leaning forward on the table, as the first round of drinks were distributed. It wasn't hard to find a nicely private spot in The Lion and Bill Holmes had done just that, knowing his eldest's dislike of being too far out in the open in any part of his life. Tasting his pint of properly hoppy bitter, he smiled and waited. Both Lillian and Mycroft had opted for long gin-and-tonics while Sarah chose soda and lime.

"Can we order first?" she asked plaintively. "I've not eaten a full meal since yesterday breakfast and I'm starting to feel a little woozy if truth be told."

"Oh, of course, you poor thing," Lillian looked mildly horrified as she realised just how much time had actually passed since they had left home the previous morning. So many things had happened that time seemed to have flowed at a very odd rate. "Let's organise some nibbles to tide you over while we order," she started looking around for a waiter.

Mycroft, sitting with a wall at his back and facing out towards the partly private aisle between dining alcoves, raised his eyes at the precise moment a member of the pub's staff walked into view. With little more than a lift of his chin, he had the young man hopping over, encompassing all four patrons with a pleasant expression.

"Are you ready to order?" the youth asked, a notepad in his hand.

"Shortly, I believe," Mycroft smiled easily. "In the meantime, we'd like to have a selection of entrées. Can you recommend anything hot and quickly available?"

Happy to be asked for his opinion, the waiter trotted out then names of several small dishes that were ready and waiting to be served. Smiling at the unconscious widening of Sarah's eyes, Mycroft ordered asparagus in prosciutto, chicken and feta pastries and rosemary bread with a green olive dip. That the latter was very much to his own taste was neither here nor there.

"So?" Bill was done with waiting. "I heard from Mycroft that things were happening unexpectedly over there and that you'd both be coming home sooner rather than later, but I've not had even a whisper of detail," he tried more of his beer. "Every man has his limit," he admonished them collectively. "What went on over there?"

About to launch into a detailed explanation of the abortive trip, Lillian was interrupted by the return of the young waiter with a large wooden tray holding several small covered dishes. Finding a space for all of them on the table before whisking the lids away with a smile, the waiter suggested he return in a few minutes, after they'd considered the menu for their main courses.

"Nice young chap." After the waiter left, Bill helped himself to a couple stalks of ham-wrapped asparagus, before turning his eyes back to Lillian and Sarah. "Now spill."

Helping herself to several pieces of the aromatic bread and dip, Sarah was too busy inhaling the food to see the rueful expression on Mycroft's face. He should have ordered double amounts of everything. Ah well.

"Well, it was all like this ..." Lillian sipped her gin, took up a pastry and began the story, with scarcely any embellishment. It was hardly necessary to add colour to such an outlandish tale. Taking a brief break to order their main meals, the Holmes matriarch jumped straight back into her narrative as soon as the young waiter had turned his back.

"... Which is when we all met up for dinner in the atrium and the whole place was lit up like Christmas ..."

Sarah looked across the table and saw Mycroft looking at her. There was something almost stoic about the way he simply sat there, letting his mother's excited chatter flow over him, registering the meaning without consciously listening to the words. His focus had been on Sarah and nothing else and the second she met his eyes, she knew it.

Hesitant, she held his unblinking gaze until she could almost feel the weight of it on her skin, the faint heat of blush tinting her cheeks, but still she held his eyes. A slow blink and a tiny movement of his mouth dried her throat. Inhaling sharply, she sat back in her chair, her heart beating harder than it had any need to do.

Bill's pork pie and Lillian's fish and chips arrived, followed immediately by Sarah's three-crab lasagne and Mycroft's steak and salad. More drinks arrived and Sarah decided she could probably risk a small glass of red wine.

Lillian was still muttering blithely away as Sarah ploughed into the pasta dish, an expression of near-bliss closing her eyes as the rich seafood exploded around her tastebuds and hit all the right feel-good buttons. Taking a tiny sip of her wine, Sarah realised she could live on this dish alone for the rest of her life.

"... And of course, by _this_ time, the ambulance people brought Sarah into the hospital and put her in the bed; John and I were a little worried at that point, I can tell you," waving a long golden chip in the air, Lillian glanced sideways in Sarah's direction.

Mycroft's expression altered as the words entered his awareness. He turned towards Sarah, a crease furrowed between his eyes.

"I wasn't told you were unwell," he murmured still frowning. "I had the police pick-up arranged to remove any suggestion the three of you had left of your own accord," he paused thoughtfully, knife and fork stationary above his dinner plate.

"I wasn't ill, but apparently I was very tired," Sarah took another sip of wine, the rich scent of cabernet sauvignon grapes filling her head with an almost mystical pleasure. It had been so long since she'd had a decent taste of wine and this one was perfect. "Doctor Zanotti in the hospital said I was to rest and build up my strength in these last few weeks with good peasant food and the occasional red wine," she grinned, raising her glass in salute.

"Actively obeying instructions?" relaxing slightly, Mycroft cut a small portion of the beef. "Wonders will never cease."

"Only when it suits," Sarah smiled and squinted. Was he flirting? "Though there might be something to what Zanotti said," she paused, savouring the lasagne. "This is utterly delicious," she almost groaned as she ate. "Though I was torn between this and your steak," she added. "Neither of which is exactly peasant food."

"Would you like to try some?" Mycroft offered vaguely as he took a spare fork from an unoccupied place-setting and carefully cut a bite-sized piece. Holding the piece of cutlery out for her to take, he was surprised when Sarah kept her hands where they were and simply leaned forward, parting her lips as she looked at him.

Feeding her the morsel of meat, Mycroft waited as she closed her mouth around the proffered food and pulled back a little as he withdrew the silverware.

It was indeed a spectacularly choice bit of steak and Sarah was almost sorry she hadn't gone with it as her first choice. Chewing carefully, she allowed the flavours to mingle across her palate and closed her eyes in the simple pleasure of eating such good food. Focusing on the remnants of her lasagne, Sarah had the rather eye-opening insight that if Mycroft Holmes wasn't actually flirting with her, then he was working up to it. Perhaps he wasn't sure how to start, as his default mode seemed to be on the uptight side of neutral. And besides, did she _want_ him to think of her in such a way? Was she, in fact, actually becoming charmed by the tall dark-haired man to the point where she would be interested in ... in what? _A relationship?_ She stopped chewing and frowned. Whatever happened, it was painfully clear that Mycroft was not the sort of man one deliberately toyed with. Not that she was concerned he'd react badly but Sarah realised she wouldn't want to be responsible for hurting him, especially now she saw that she could. She blinked several times. _Oh my god._ The knowledge made her skin prickle into goosebumps.

There was a loud _clank_ as Mycroft dropped the fork onto his plate.

"Whatever's the matter, darling?" Lillian turned to see her eldest son looking momentarily bemused. "Bite your tongue?"

Reaching for her wine, Sarah took a long sip, waiting as the burn of alcohol warmed her face. If she was _already_ worried about hurting him ... then ... she took another sip of wine, almost terrified now to look up and risk meeting his eyes. Mycroft saw everything, she knew this as truth. It would be impossible to hide how she felt about ... anything. Sarah realised her wine was gone and switched to the nearest glass of water.

"Sarah?" it was Bill's turn to sound concerned. "Are you alright, sweetheart? Feeling Okay?"

"Just a little hot," she said, keeping her eyes averted. "I haven't had any wine for a long time," she added. It was a truthful excuse, though not an honest one.

"Perhaps some fresh air might help?" Mycroft was already standing, walking around to ease her out of her chair and she still couldn't look at him.

"Yes, that's the best idea, as long as you're not feeling wobbly on your feet," Lillian sounded mildly bothered but less so now that her son was actively involved. Whatever else her eldest might be, he was, at his core, a caring man.

Knowing that to resist would result in more questions, the kind of awkward questions she really didn't want to think about, let alone try and answer, Sarah rose slowly to her feet, allowing Mycroft to drape her coat around her shoulders.

Silent, she felt his arm slide lightly around her back, more in support than anything romantic. There was a small side-door leading out into an empty beer garden, filled with forlorn-looking picnic tables and the detritus of warmer days.

Helping her to sit on the corner of a bench, Sarah felt Mycroft's presence looming all around her. He was standing so close; she could almost feel the heat from his body. Breathing deeply several times, the icy air cleared her head in more ways than one.

"Sorry," she murmured. "The wine probably wasn't the best idea on top of everything else."

"Are you feeling quite well, Sarah?" his voice was calm and soft and it made her ache inside. "Are you in discomfort? Do you need medical attention?"

"No ... I'm fine really," she made herself look up then, meeting eyes that glittered black in the pub's Christmas lights. They searched her face with an almost relentless purpose. "I had a ... funny feeling," she added. There was really no clear way to describe the sensation. How does one describe the moment you realise you've started to genuinely care for another ... that you might even be ...

"I think we should get you back to the farmhouse sooner rather than later," his voice held a shade more certainty. "Are you able to stand or do you want to sit a little longer?"

Taking the hand that Mycroft held out to her, Sarah stood upright, allowing herself to be drawn in close so he could slip his arm around her again as she leaned against the immovable object that was Mycroft Holmes. She closed her eyes and took another deep breath.

"Sarah."

There was only a couple of inches difference in their heights and she couldn't keep staring down forever. With eyes almost closed, she lifted her face, the subtle notes of his cologne pleasant in the clean cold air.

"Mycroft." They were so close, even in the dark she could make out the fine lines at the corner of his eyes.

Lifting his free hand, he repeated his action of earlier in the day, touching the side of her face with warm fingertips as he held her gaze.

"I dropped the fork, Sarah," he murmured. "And you didn't look at me," he added. "Why didn't you look?"

Feeling a rush of heat to her face, she knew his fingertips would feel it too. This close, there was no way she could lie and hope to get away with it. And she realised, almost belatedly, she had no wish to lie.

"It occurred to me that looking at you was not the best idea," she whispered, searching out his expression in the darkness. "I was thinking."

"Thinking of what, exactly?" His fingertips moved fractionally higher, stroking the soft skin at her hairline.

"Thinking that ... that I wouldn't want to be the one to hurt you," her own hand had slid up his arm and shoulder, her fingers straying perilously close to the line of his shirt collar, warm from the heat of his skin.

"I wouldn't want you to hurt me either," he breathed, dipping his head and finding her mouth with lips cool from the winter air.

The kiss was understated and almost motionless, more nearly a press of lips than anything else. His hand moved to support the back of her head as he leaned a little closer, turning the delicate caress into a velvet kiss that was warm in the chill of the night. Sarah felt the baby turning a slow somersault and smiled against Mycroft's mouth.

"Your son is feeling left out," she laughed softly, bringing his hand down between them to rest on the sheltered dome of her belly which shimmied with internal activity.

"Our son," Mycroft's arm tightened a little around her back. "Needs a lesson in timing," he smiled in the dark, pressing his fingers into the mass of braided hair. "Shall we go back inside?"

"I need to find the loo," Sarah allowed him to adjust the coat around her shoulders and to press his palm delicately in the small of her back. "All this excitement is a bit much," she smiled again as they reached the side door where the overhead Christmas lights painting interesting shadows on his face. "We should continue this conversation at some point," she said, standing on tip-toe and touching her mouth to his. "Somewhere a little more private."

Mycroft opened the door for her, his expression a study in benign distraction. About to make a comment, his phone rang. "Excuse me," he waited until Sarah walked down the passageway and entered the Ladies before answering.

"Yes?"

"Soren Mancuso has been released on bail. It happened faster than we anticipated, sir." It was Nigel Collingham, Anthea's backup. "But then the Mancuso family are very well connected."

"Indeed," Mycroft sighed internally. He'd hoped to have had at least this one evening without pondering the activities of Italy's leading crime family. "Where is he now?"

"He went into a small barbershop and is currently sitting in plain sight, all towelled up and having a shave," Collingham sounded irritatingly jolly; Anthea must have been very tired to go home and leave him in charge.

"How long has Mancuso been inside the barber's?" Mycroft asked the question before he even knew why he was asking.

"About thirty minutes, sir," there was a new note of caution in Collingham's words.

"That's too long," Mycroft's lips flattened. "Something's wrong. Get someone inside to check and call me back."

Restoring the phone to an inner pocket, Mycroft waited a further minute until Sarah returned from the toilets. There was an enigmatic look on her face, as if she were pleased with herself and trying not to show it. Despite everything, Mycroft found himself experiencing a similar sensation.

"Shall we?" he offered her his arm and gently patted the back of her hand as she slid it through the crook of his elbow. "Brace yourself," he muttered, inhaling deeply.

"Brace myself for what?" Sarah turned to look at him, just as they reached the table where Mycroft made no attempt to seat her, just held her close.

Lillian was the first to notice.

"Oh _my_ ..." she put down her glass with a faint thud and used the free hand to shake Bill's shoulder. " _Look_ , Daddy," she stage-whispered. "Sarah and Mycroft have made up and everything's right with the world," her pale eyes sparkled, as if the sight of them together implied more than it was. Bill raised his eyes to the two of them standing beside the table, a slow smile stretching his mouth wide.

"About time," he announced. "I think this calls for another drink!"

"No more alcohol for me," Sarah fanned her face with her free hand. "Though I seem to recall there was at least one more bottle of that lovely non-alcoholic champagne in the 'fridge up at the house."

"Indeed there is, my darling girl and you are so clever for thinking of it," Lillian was already getting her things together in preparation for leaving the pub. "I shall make us all some nice coffee and we can celebrate everyone being back safe and sound," she wrapped a scarf around her throat.

"A moment, Mummy," Mycroft lift a hand to forestall her, reaching for his phone. "I need to see if Jack is ready to collect us." In a second, his phone was calling the driver's number. There was a faint hum of words at the other end of the call.

"Thank you Jack," Mycroft looked at Sarah and nodded. "Five minutes."

As soon as he ended the call, the phone rang again. He'd been expecting it.

"Yes?" He walked towards a small window bearing an old pub crest. It was pitch-dark outside and drops of water pelted the gilt-crimson glass making it impossible to see beyond. And now the voice in his ear told him the body slumped in the chair at the barber's was the old barber himself. The eldest Mancuso son, or more likely, one of his men, had removed a witness and found a convenient diversion at the same time. Soren Mancuso was free, knew he was being watched and had spies in every major police station along Italy's west coast. It would only be a matter of time before someone spoke out of turn.

The whole operation was now threatened. It had been planned so very carefully; a strategic operation to round up the entire Mancuso mob in one fell swoop, intended to have been completed before the eldest Mancuso son was able to orchestrate his release. But the corruption was obviously more deeply rooted than had been estimated. Though steps had already been taken to clear both Sarah and Robby Muir of any involvement in the Casa di Sabbia raid, it might not be enough if even one of the key Mancuso figures was left uncontrolled. Muir was currently off on an extended expedition in the Brazilian rain-forest, courtesy of Her Majesty's Government and even Sarah's agent, Milton Ajax, was under significant though covert protection. But with Soren Mancuso on the loose, someone was bound to talk. _They always did_. And then the Italian's gaze would turn towards Britain in a most undesirable way. Eventually, someone would be coming for Sarah and her child. Ending the call, Mycroft Holmes gazed out through the old glass, into the blackest of nights.

"Champagne and coffee sounds perfectly civilised," he turned, smiling.

###

It was becoming a lot harder to navigate the narrow little passage up to her bedroom. In the almost three weeks since she'd last seen Mycroft at the pub, Sarah had filled out so much she was ungainly to the point of clumsiness. Every meaningful act of movement took extra time and forethought. It seemed that all of a sudden, life was draggingly cumbersome and sluggish and she wasn't moving around as much as she had been even a few days earlier. Everything took more time now, even the act of getting out of bed in the morning was a major effort. The baby was a solid weight that made the slightest effort doubly hard. Sarah felt more than usually tired and her back was too painful for her to walk far or even stand for very long. The day she got wedged stuck going up the small staircase to Mycroft's old bedroom was the day she accepted Lillian's argument that the downstairs guest room was perhaps an easier alternative. It felt strange to sleep in a wide bed after being in Mycroft's old single for so long, but she was so over the whole pregnancy thing by this time that after the first night the difference barely registered.

As anticipated, Lillian had accompanied her up to London only the week before. Feeling too uncomfortable to drive the Mazda herself, Sarah had agreed to let Mycroft send down a car for them and the two women enjoyed the luxury of a chauffeur-driven excursion everywhere they needed to go in the City for the day. It was shamefully indulgent and Sarah wallowed in every second of it.

Doctor Mandal had been delighted to see her for the final routine check-up before the birth. It was the first week of December and Sarah was nearly thirty-seven weeks pregnant.

She was also huge.

"It's not a baby anymore," she complained, finding it awkward to even use the small block of steps to hoist herself onto the examination couch. "He's part-Hippo, part Blue Whale," she grumbled, lying back against the pillows and letting Anni Mandal fuss around with a tape measure. "Not only does he weigh more than I do, but I swear he's trying to kick his way out from the inside," Sarah looked balefully at her obstetrician. " _And_ I remember watching _Alien_ ," she muttered.

Pausing in her assessment, the doctor raised her eyes to meet Lillian's on the far side of the bed. Exchanging a knowing glance, the two women smiled, having been in the same boat themselves.

"You're doing remarkably well," the obstetrician checked her figures and looked very pleased. "Male foetuses gain a large amount of their mass in the final few weeks," she said. "And your boy is already above average in both weight and size," she nodded, her eyes scanning the monitor on her desk. "I may need to reconsider the estimated day of delivery," she sounded thoughtful. "At this rate, he's going to be a substantial birthweight," she paused, assessing the options. "Have you considered a Caesarean delivery?"

"I read all the materials you gave me," Sarah was thankful Lillian was there to help her dress as her feet and legs were impossible to see once she stood up. "Other than being a late first pregnancy, I didn't think I fell into any of the risk groups?"

"You don't, but the genetic combination between you are your ... between you and Mr Holmes, is such that the two of you have produced a very long and robust baby," Doctor Mandal turned to face her patient. "I estimate he'll be at least nine pounds at birth," she raised her eyebrows. "You have a sufficiently wide pelvis that this shouldn't be too difficult for you, though it might put some stress on the baby if it's a long labour, as _primigravidas_ often are."

"Are you saying that I need a C-section for the baby's sake?" Sarah stilled. "If you recommend it, then I will, naturally," she felt oddly unsettled; this was all suddenly uncomfortably real. "Everything's been fine this far, so of course I don't want there to be problems at the end."

"If you want to discuss it with your ... Mr Holmes ..." Doctor Mandal paused delicately. "Have you decided whether to have him present during the birth?"

Sarah wrinkled her nose but managed not to laugh. "I can't imagine Mycroft wanting anything to do with childbirth," she was dubiously amused. "He's one of the most _proper_ individuals I've ever met and I just can't see him being comfortable with mess and fuss," she smiled at the idea of Mycroft stalking around in hospital scrubs. "Keeping him far away from the entire procedure would be the kindest thing I could do for everyone concerned."

"Then of course, you'll let me be with you," Lillian finished fastening that last of the loops holding the warm woolly jacket closed across Sarah's front. "I never managed to have a daughter of my own and I've come to think of you as exactly that, so you'll let me do this for you, won't you?" she said, her faded blue eyes momentarily bright as she patted the back of Sarah's hand. "Unless you want to be by yourself?"

"I think having you with me would be lovely, Lillian," Sarah hugged the shorter woman awkwardly around the lump of baby. "As long as you don't mind all the bother."

The Holmes matriarch smiled. "Count me in. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I have a suite availability confirmed for you in the maternity ward at the University College Hospital for a week either side of your EDD," the obstetrician tapped her fingers on the desk thoughtfully. "Though I believe we'll be looking at an earlier date rather than a later one in your case, so if you do elect to go for a Caesar, it's no problem at all for me to arrange it. For the moment though, we'll go with the natural delivery as planned, shall we?"

Nodding quickly, Sarah needed to use the bathroom with its wonderful wide doorway.

###

Soren Mancuso was in a foul mood.

It had taken him and the few remaining people he could trust, precious days and weeks, to hide him safely from a country-wide sweep aimed at securing his capture. This in itself was unusual enough but there was also a vast tangle of obfuscation piled up on the events surrounding the raid at the _House of Sand_. At first, he'd thought the raid, depriving him not only of his brothers, father and any number of family friends and acquaintances, had been a spasm of the occasionally-active Ministry of Justice. The minister had long sworn to become more vigorous against organised crime up and down the country, but so far, he had done nothing.

Mancuso had also wondered if the whole thing had might have been the result of a major push by his competitors; something to get the whole family out of the way and clear a space for a new _Condottiere_ and his entourage. But it was neither of these things. There was nobody trying to take over; the Minister had remained utterly silent on the matter at his most recent press conference, therefore it was something else, something entirely different. His mouth flattening into a tight, hard line, the eldest Mancuso scion set various people in motion, inquiries and actions that would clear the way to not only reinstate the Mancuso fortunes and bring his people back from wherever they now languished. These actions would also return an expensive and unique facility at San Vincenzo that had been confiscated by an unknowing _politzia_ who imagined the hotel was simple an hotel. Yet despite his best efforts, something remained standing in his way, some granite-like resistance beneath which all his usual adherents, the people who called him friend or who owed him more than money, had simply vanished, never to be seen or heard from again.

This was not in the least part acceptable.

His deliberate investigations made it clear that the power being wielded against him was not based in his own country, but elsewhere. Nor did it appear to be in any central location nearby; not France or Switzerland, Austria or Greece. He wondered then if the situation might have been brought about by a new faction from the east, across the Adriatic Sea and he sent out enquiries towards Russia and the Eastern bloc. There were many in the cold climate of Poland and the Slovakias who had long envied his family from afar and who would not hesitate to strike if they felt success was within their grasp. But the force opposing him was not of the east; it was far too dispassionate and controlled.

Eventually, Soren Mancuso turned his search north, beyond France and the Low Countries. A couple of his last free sources whispered of London and of contracts and orders and of unknown and unnamed men with cold eyes and guns under their jackets. This was puzzling to the Mancuso heir apparent; apart from interests in a few small casinos in the midlands of Britain, his family had no real presence there. But the whispers persisted and so he listened as he smoked a favourite cigar realising he knew someone who might possibly supply more detailed information. There never had been any real clarification of what had happened to the writer and the photographer on the night of the raid at the hotel, though every record and document he'd seen told of their arrest and interrogation before an eventual release and swift deportation from Italy. Apparently, the woman's agent had even requested her bags, left at La Casa di Sabbia because of the police raid, be returned.

Which meant that somewhere, there was an address.

###

The old adage advising any urgently needed task should be given to a busy man was clearly invented by someone with a great many servants. Mycroft rediscovered the truism for the fourth time that day while closing his laptop just as Big Ben struck eight. It was too late to really begin anything new, most of his staff had already left and he was tired. The additional and enormous short-term effort and responsibility of co-ordinating a trans-European search-and-destroy of the Mancuso clan on top of running his own department with all the internal and external machinations such an extensive activity entailed had stretched his people to the point of exhaustion. The last few weeks had required him to work simultaneously on behalf of both the Italian _and_ British governments, each of which had been more than happy to offload the entire Tuscany operation onto his shoulders. And no doubt, the Ministers concerned in each administration would humbly accept their nation's praise of a job well done once the operation was wrapped up and complete. In the meantime, there was precious little return as yet for the great deal of effort and energy that had been expended. Nor had any of the significant number of operatives under his indirect control yet been able to locate Soren Mancuso. Thus far, it was a war of attrition, with a number of very close calls but the man himself was as slippery as oil on glass. Instead, wherever Mancuso had looked for information and resources, Mycroft's people had managed to close things down. Knowing exactly what the Italian was doing and precisely how quickly the man's search was bringing him ever closer to London, Mycroft permitted himself the unusual luxury of feeling mildly vindictive.

Soren Mancuso would not get what he wanted.

In the Jaguar on the ride to his house in Kensington, Mycroft amused himself with his phone, flicking through a collection of photographs recently sent to him of Sarah and his mother. He had lacked even the opportunity to meet them for lunch at the time and while the photos were a small comfort, it was hardly sufficient. To see her and yet not ... his fingertip traced the rounded contour of Sarah's belly and he found himself losing track of time. The car was parked in front of the house and Jack was watching him in the rear-view mirror before Mycroft realised he was home.

"'Night Jack," he rubbed his tired eyes. "Usual time tomorrow."

"'Night, Mr Holmes," Jack nodded calmly in the mirror, watching and waiting until the tall man was inside the house with the door firmly closed.

In the hallway of his home, Mycroft hooked his umbrella on an old Victorian hatstand. He walked down the long central passage and into a very sleek and modern kitchen he'd had installed when the cabinet doors in the old one kept sticking. Everything in here now was low-key, easy on the eye and pleasantly silent. He threw his coat and scarf over the back of a chair then helped himself to several ice-cubes from the refrigerator. Heading back down the passage into a tastefully-lit lounge, he added a measure of gin and a splash of tonic to the ice.

Sitting in his preferred chair, he sipped the alcohol, flicking his phone open and once again scrolling through the photos of Sarah and his mother.

 _Soren Mancuso would not get what he wanted._


	20. Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

"Business or pleasure, sir?" The Border Force Officer at Heathrow arrivals offered a professional half-smile as he inspected the man standing in front of the passport entry cubicle while the face-recognition software did its thing.

"Oh, business, I'm afraid," the man, Italian both by his accented English and passport raised his eyebrows slightly and looked rueful, before perking up. "Though I'm hoping to have a little fun while I'm here," he smiled faintly.

The face-recognition program flashed green; the man was not currently on any national or international warning or wanted lists. He could enter Britain.

"Then I hope you have successful business trip, sir," the official imprinted the oblong British entry stamp on the man's passport and handed it back, his eyes already shifting to the next person in the queue.

###

At a small private airport just outside Rome, an entirely ordinary, eight-seater chartered jet took off with a flight plan laid in for an equally small airport just outside London. The solitary passenger, a dour-looking man, checked his watch. They would arrive mid-morning. After speaking with the pilot, he nodded in satisfaction. A faint smile curved his mouth, though the left side did not move.

###

Sarah opened her eyes and yawned but made no attempt to get up. The bed was warm and soft and the second she moved, she knew everything would begin to ache all over again. So she simply lay in the warm comfort until the ever-present pressure on her bladder forced her to sit up.

The baby was sitting low and heavy now and with every step she took, Sarah felt as if she were wading through deep mud. _Only another week_ , she realised and smiled. One day at a time, then.

###

Collecting his modest suitcase from one of Heathrow's long carousels, the Italian walked confidently beneath a range of generic airport Christmas decorations, towards the main exits. It was still very early and the grey light of a British winter dawn awaited him, as did the ranks of black cabs outside the terminal. Giving the driver the name of a good hotel in Richmond where a room, a car and a gun would be waiting for him, he sat back and watched the scenery flow past at a relatively sedate pace. These London cabs were big and roomy, but they were also cumbersome beasts. _They would not be much good in a getaway situation_ , he mused, far too easy to spot and catch. The notion occurred that using one of these ungainly black monstrosities might be a good idea if it were possible to guarantee being able to blend in with all the other such vehicles in the city; there must be thousands of the things. He smiled at the mental image of the police trying in vain to isolate the appropriate cab from a host of them. The picture was so amusing that he enjoyed the journey into London thinking of different ways to use a London cab in a robbery.

###

"Do you want me to come up to London with you and Mummy?" Bill Holmes asked the question casually as he washed dishes in the big kitchen sink. "It wouldn't be any problem at all and I could always take in some of the museums while I'm up in town."

Seated at the kitchen table, Sarah considered the question. Bill hadn't mentioned anything about this before, but perhaps he hadn't wanted to pressure her into anything she didn't want. It would probably be nice for Lillian to have him up there with her too, just in case she needed anything done but was at the hospital waiting for the baby. The other alternative of course, was that he simply wanted to be close to the birth himself. Sarah didn't attempt to hide her smile.

"Of course you can come along," she laughed. "My flat is your flat, as they say. As long as you won't feel bored or obliged to do anything other than knock around London while we wait," she added, lifting her eyebrows. "My obstetrician seems to think that this might be a fairly slow process."

"What's going to be a slow process?" Lillian re-entered the warm kitchen, the walls and window-ledges already decked in festive Christmas decorations and holly. There was a small Christmas tree in the corner in here as well as the proper big one by the window in the sitting room. It was the twenty-third of December and eight days until Sarah's due date. Mycroft was coming down to Eynsford that evening after the British government officially closed for the holidays and would be at the farmhouse for two days. They would all travel back up to London on Boxing Day where a low-key family dinner had already been arranged at the Langham. Sarah would be comfortable ensconced in the Lonsdale Square flat in plenty of time for D-Day. Lillian had already packed their bags in case the baby decided to make an unexpected Christmas present of himself.

The only thing Sarah wanted to do before she settled in for the Christmas celebrations and inevitable slothing around watching television and eating indulgently, was to take one final trip down to the massage clinic where Trish was waiting for her special client. Her back had eased from the masseuse's regular treatments and in the last week, Sarah had been down at the clinic almost every day. Today she was feeling a particular need as the excitement of Christmas finally arriving and then the thought of returning to London for the big day, was making her much too tense and her back was even more uncomfortable than usual. Her appointment at the massage clinic was for ten-thirty. Bill was going to drive her down in the Mazda in a few minutes.

"Delivering a first baby is probably going to be slow," Sarah answered Lillian's query, easing into a more comfortable posture as she checked her emails. "Doctor Mandal still wants to know if I prefer to go for a Caesar or not."

"But you don't have to make up your mind until the last minute, do you?" Bill seemed totally _au fait_ with the whole childbirth scene and hadn't so much as twitched when the discussion had turned to things of a uncompromisingly earthy nature. Sarah wondered then if that was where the two Holmes boys got their pragmatism.

"And you don't even know for certain that it's going to be a slow process, really," Lillian came over to help Sarah on with her outdoor shoes as the baby made it impossible for her to find her feet these days, let alone tie shoelaces. "You could be in-and-out in a couple of days."

"I can only hope," Sarah sighed, patting her stomach and trying to ease her back into a less achy position.

###

Even though it was early, the hotel had been prepared for his check-in, straight from Heathrow. His room-key was waiting for him, as was the expected plain sealed envelope containing his instructions which he had been instructed not to open until he was away from prying eyes. The Italian travelled up to his floor, finding his room number and letting himself inside.

The room was pleasant as such places went, though he had no intention of staying long enough to need anything. Ripping open the envelope, a frown creased his forehead at the three-word message. OPEN THE DOOR.

Shrugging, he strode across the room and opened the door, only to pause sharply, before reversing his steps very carefully indeed, both hands rising into the air. Such caution was understandable when one has the business-end of a Glock pressing none too gently against one's right eyebrow.

"Are we having fun yet, sir?" the Border Force officer smiled a professional half-smile.

###

The small jet landed at Biggin Hill without fuss or fanfare. As the plane taxied to a halt at the edge of the asphalt, several unmarked police cars pulled up, effectively cordoning the small plane off from the rest of the airport. The single passenger protested loudly when they came for him but ended up getting into one of the cars without too much fuss.

The two pilots were told to refuel and return to their original departure point; the aircraft was to be out of British airspace within the hour, or it would be impounded.

Nodding and smiling in understanding, the uniformed senior pilot, a dour-looking man, grabbed a clipboard and headed at speed towards the airfield's administrative office to organise refuelling. It would be unfortunate that the plane was about to develop a small but critical problem, necessitating an additional few hours on the tarmac. As he walked away from the plane, he allowed himself another faint smile, though only one side of his mouth lifted.

###

Just as Bill was reversing the Mazda in the drive so that Sarah would have easy access to the wide rear door, a second car arrived, glossy and significantly more upmarket. Sticking his head out of the driver's window, Bill Holmes waited until the car edged closer.

"Mycroft?"

Jack was out the front door with his fingers on the rear door handle in a second, permitting the solitary passenger to step directly out and onto the crunchy gravel drive at which point Jack dived back into the driving seat.

"Father," Mycroft nodded, pulling a pair of soft leather gloves on his hands as the chill air bit skin warmed inside the Jaguar. "Is Sarah ready for her massage appointment?"

Not bothering to ask his son how he knew such a detail, Holmes senior smiled. "I'll just check, shall I?" Before he could take more than two steps, the front door opened.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Ready to head down into the village, Sarah paused suddenly, holding onto the door jamb to stop from overbalancing as she had almost done a couple of times as she moved too quickly. Her centre of balance was completely out of whack and right now, she'd use anything that helped her stand upright. Besides, the doorframe was nice and solid and wouldn't complain if she gripped it too hard. "I didn't think I'd see you before this evening."

It took Mycroft three strides to reach her side and a fourth to curve one hand around her shoulders. "You look splendid," he observed quietly, his eyes trying to take in Sarah's much-increased roundness. "Quite blooming, in fact."

"I look like I'm trying to smuggle an elephant," Sarah thankfully held onto his long fingers. "I've asked your mother to cover up every mirror on the ground floor because I am too vain to see myself as a circus big-top on legs."

"Oh, you do not," Lillian manoeuvred around her, reaching up to her eldest son to plant a brief kiss on his cheek. "Hello, darling," she said. "This is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you were going to come down tonight?"

"I ..." Mycroft was momentarily hesitant. "I have a perfectly competent assistant ..." he lifted his chin. "Plus, Jack has already arranged to stay in Eynsford with his friends for the duration, so there was little point waiting around for the Christmas rush out of town," he arched his eyebrows. "And now both Jack and I are here to help out with ..." he turned his eyes back to Sarah. "With anything that needs help," he finished quietly, his voice fading into the air as she smiled at him.

"It's lovely that you were able to come down early," Sarah squeezed his fingers. "I appreciate it."

"May I accompany you to your appointment?" Mycroft's eyes kept moving between Sarah's face and the wonderful swell of her belly. The fingers of his free hand twitched and she laughed.

"You're dying to touch, admit it," she leaned against him. "Go on then. I won't mind in the least," she added. "Help yourself."

"Come along, Bill," Lillian called her husband. "I need your help in the kitchen."

"Yes, dear," the older man patted his son on the shoulder and grinned briefly. "Don't keep Sarah on her feet too long, son," he winked in passing.

Waiting until they were relatively alone, Mycroft wrapped Sarah's hand in his. "You truly are magnificent," he said, reaching out his other hand. "May I?"

Taking his fingers, Sarah guided them across the orb of her belly, the skin beneath the loose woollen tunic and t-shirt warm and stretched hard like a drum. There was an almost constant movement within.

"I had thought he was part-hippo, but now I think he's more eagle," Sarah felt her lips curve. "I think he wants to fly."

" _Sarah_ ," the suddenly liquid expression in Mycroft's eyes suggested he wanted to say a great deal more but restrained himself. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he brushed her fingers with his lips. "I decided not to wait," he smiled. "The thought of working until this evening was making me increasingly unproductive. I chose to abuse my executive authority."

"I'm pleased you did," Sarah rested her hand on top of his. "As long as you don't mind acting as a general factotum for me; it's a bit hard to get around now."

"It would be a genuine pleasure," Mycroft leaned in and wrapped an arm around of much of her as he could, breathing in the fragrant scent of her skin and hair. "You smell wonderful," he murmured.

"That's the baby," Sarah laughed as she took his hand and walked towards the Jaguar. "According to your mother, my skin has been changing quite a lot recently," she laughed again. "She says I'm _glowing_ , in case you hadn't noticed."

"My mother is not without her observant moments," the smile on his face was real but there was a tension about him that belied his mood. "May I come with you?"

"You want to come in and watch me being massaged?" Sarah raised her eyebrows teasingly. "Why Mycroft, that's a little daring, isn't it?"

"I'm perfectly happy to wait outside the room," he pursed his mouth waspishly. "I'd simply prefer that you not go alone."

Even though he was being thoroughly low key about it all, Sarah got the feeling that something else was in the wind.

"There's a problem," she said, knowing instantly that there was. "There's something you're not saying, isn't there?"

"Come and sit in the car and we can talk," Mycroft's voice didn't change in tone, nor did he sound overly anxious and Sarah felt her rising concerns lessen though not entirely disappear. Wedging herself into the back of the Jaguar was easier said than done but with a fair amount of patient assistance from Mycroft, they got there in the end. Just as well, her back was now well and truly unhappy with life.

Getting a nod from Mycroft, Jack slowly got the big car into gear, easing it out of the driveway and into the lane.

"So?" Sarah gave up trying to find a comfortable way to sit. "Tell me what's gone wrong before I start making wild guesses."

"You are so certain something is wrong?" Mycroft carefully reached across her, pressing a small button in the armrest of the door at her side. Immediately, a firm lumbar support extruded from the back seat behind her. The relief to her back was so sudden and so great that she closed her eyes and gasped.

"Oh _god_ , that's so much better," she hissed. "Thank you." Saying nothing, Mycroft simply found and held her hand, squeezing it gently.

"And of course something's wrong," Sarah breathed out, relaxing as the pain in her muscles eased. "I'm not stupid, Mycroft. I can see things."

Puffing out his cheeks before releasing a slow breath. "I am aware," he rubbed his eyes. "Though there's nothing really to be concerned about; I am merely being extra vigilant."

"Extra vigilant about what?" Sarah usually loved driving down these high-hedged country lanes but right now all her attention was focused on Mycroft. What was he so reluctant to tell her?

Turning to meet her eyes and still holding her hand, Mycroft looked serious but not overtly worried.

"Soren Mancuso escaped detention on bail and is now a fugitive from international justice," he said, simply. "The man does not lack intelligence. It didn't take him long to realise that the comprehensive process of rounding up his family and all their extensive business interests had to have been a major police and governmental operation. I've been co-ordinating the entire thing in Italy at the joint behest of both the British and the Italian governments," he paused, hesitating as if unsure how much he should say next.

"Even though there's been an extraordinary manhunt set on finding Mancuso, we've not been able to catch him; he keeps slipping through our grasp at the last moment, which means that the man has many friends and associates ready to protect him or most likely, too frightened not to."

"But if he's still in Italy, then why the concern?" Sarah was trying to imagine a range of different scenarios where Soren Mancuso's freedom was a problem down here in Kent.

"Because we also know that he has sent several ... people ... to locate and acquire Robeson Muir, Milton Ajax, Lillian Stuart ... and you."

"Me?" Sarah's heart began to thud in an unpleasant way. "And your mother and Robby?" she paused, taking it all in. "And Milt too? _Why_ , for god's sake? What does he think we can do for him?"

Looking strained, Mycroft frowned. "Even though we had planned your leaving of the House of Sand with the Italian federal police down to the last detail, it was unavoidable that there were a few local San Vincenzo officers involved," he paused, frowning even more heavily. "Mancuso's people got to at least one of them and clearly a question was raised as to the authenticity of your departure. Given Soren Mancuso's now extremely precarious position, no doubt he's looking for answers wherever he might find them and his deliberations have eventually got him looking at London."

"Is Milt safe?" Sarah couldn't get her mind to work fast enough; her thoughts felt as if they were glued together and refused to become clear or make sense. "Are your parents safe? What about Robby Muir? _Oh_ _god,_ _Mycroft_ ," she sought his eyes, as if she might read the truth in them.

"Darling Sarah, it's perfectly all right," Mycroft's voice remained calm and soft, just as his fingers stroked and held her hands so very gently. "Everything is going to be perfectly all right. I've had people working on this problem since I was advised of Mancuso's disappearance," he smiled calmingly. "Everyone will be safe; the last of his men were picked up this morning," he said reassuringly. "And after today, not only will Jack and I be here, but I have a full security team on a twenty-four-hour alert until we all return to London," he squeezed her fingers again. "Nobody is in danger, everyone is protected," he smiled again. "Trust me."

"Are you sure you caught all of Mancuso's people?" Sarah was still thinking of something terrible happening to harmless old Milton Ajax who wouldn't hurt a fly. "How do you know who they are?"

"We're confident we have them all," Mycroft sounded utterly convincing and assured. "We've been tracking a number of agents from the Mancuso stable for the last few days. The last two came in this morning and we had them both rounded up as soon as they arrived," he threaded his fingers through hers. "All the key airports and seaports have been watched from the day Mancuso was released on bail and I've had security surveillance on both your Australian photographer friend _and_ your agent since that time," he held her hands between his and made sure she could see he was being as open as it was possible for him to be. "There is nothing for anyone to worry about."

###

It took him less than a minute to remove the pilot's insignia from the black jacket. The epaulets came off with the aid of a very sharp knife, though the gold braiding at the cuffs needed to have the stitching cut before he was able to rip it all off. Brushing away the loose threads and pulling off the dark tie, he opened a couple of buttons at the throat of the shirt. Everything else he wore was nondescript and would barely attract a single glance, let alone a second.

Walking out of the men's toilets, he crossed the dark grey carpeted hallway leading out towards the main entrance. Opening the glass doors and stepping out into the main customer carpark, he was surprised to see how close the airport was to London; the tall buildings of London's skyline perfectly clear in the distance. Pulling a set of car keys from his pocket, he pressed the unlock button, turning his head sharply to the left as a plain Ford sedan beeped at the far end of the carpark. In seconds, he was inside and opening the glove compartment. A thick envelope of additional instructions awaited him, though he already knew exactly what he was expected to do.

Find the two women and persuade them to join him for a little ride on the little plane. If they refused ... underneath the envelope was a lethal-looking Beretta. He laughed suddenly; the Mancusos' were such traditionalists.

###

"It's just as well this place is all on one level," Sarah muttered, gritting her teeth as she struggled to get out of the Jaguar in front of the massage clinic. "I had to stop using your room after I got stuck going up the small staircase."

"If you prefer, I can have Jack take us both back up to London immediately after your massage and take you directly to your hospital suite?" Mycroft sounded concerned and oddly unsure. "Or, if the hospital is not to your liking, then I can arrange to have you stay at my house in Kensington ... or I can easily have an hotel organised; any place without stairs, I assume a lift would be acceptable. Or perhaps you'd be more comfortable at ..."

"Stop," Sarah half-turned, placing a palm flat against the front of his jacket. "I've been asked by your parents to be a guest for Christmas and that's what I still plan on doing," she said. "Even though I can barely fit through any of the doorways in their house anymore and your poor, long-suffering mother has to help me with everything from drying myself after a shower to putting on my shoes, I'd still much rather it be like this than be in some sterile, impersonal hospital or hotel suite for the next few days, no matter how luxurious it might be. Now, stop fretting and find some inner peace, Mycroft," she smiled charitably at his entirely serious yet minor fluster. "There's at least a week still to go and I need all the calm I can get."

"Are you by any chance suggesting I get a grip?" giving her a hard look, Mycroft frowned before letting his shoulders relax, knowing that Sarah was not in any immediate distress. He even found it in himself to smile vaguely as he checked where Jack was parking the car on the opposite side of the road. Perhaps Sarah was correct after all; the sense of impending doom he'd carried for weeks might well be irrational. This whole thing was as new to him as it was to her and he found himself envying her _savoir faire_.

"I think I might be," Sarah patted his arm and held tight as he helped her through the glass door into the clinic. The air was warm after the outside chill, scented lightly with the fragrance of ginger and cinnamon. Trish stood waiting by the open door of the downstairs massage room, several thick warmed towels in her arms.

"Morning, Sarah," the masseuse grinned as she watched her client waddle in. "You're getting bigger every day, but won't be long now, hey?" Flicking her gaze to Mycroft, she lifted her eyebrows taking in the city suit and city shoes. "This him, is it?"

"This is certainly him," Sarah patted Mycroft's arm again and pointed him to a couple of armchairs either side of a small table covered with health magazines. "I'll be about half-an-hour," she added. "If you're sure you want to wait?"

Saying nothing, Mycroft's eyes scanned the woman clinician. Apart from the fact that his mother had personally vouched for her, his people had vetted her back to the primary school years, with nothing more sinister to show for it than a speeding ticket a handful of years previously. _But still_. "I'll be right here," blinking slowly as he lifted his chin; he gave the masseuse a calculating stare. "Shout if you need me."

Throwing him a an exasperated glance, Sarah followed Trish into the back room, closing the door behind her. It would take her a while to get up on the massage table and have Trish fix her into place with wedges of dense foam. Fortunately, she had planned ahead and the clothes she wore needed only to be rolled up out of the way rather than having to be removed. As soon as the first heated towel was pressed firmly against her back she sighed with relief. It was warm and quiet and peaceful. Something classical on the radio tinkled away in the background.

"I've no idea what I'm going to do without this for the next few days," she groaned conversationally as Trish tested the state of her lower back muscles. Pausing as she felt an unusual tension, the masseuse looked thoughtful.

"Does it hurt a lot down here especially?" she asked, carefully pressing low in the lumbar area.

"Oh god, you have no idea," Sarah felt her back flexing a little as she moved instinctively with the pressure. "My obstetrician said I'd probably have some pain low down because the baby is so big."

"Hmm," Trish sounded dubious. "You're not due until the end of the month, but do you feel anything like pressure around the sides of your tummy?" she asked. "Any feeling that you need to push down?"

Sarah laughed, knowing exactly what her new friend was asking. "No, I'm not in labour _just_ yet," she smiled against the pillow. "I think it's just having to drag this great lump around," she groaned again as Trish pushed the flat of both fists hard into the surrounding area. The relief on her muscles was wonderful.

"If it gets too bad, just get onto all fours and let the weight take itself away from your spine," the masseuse continued, pressing and smoothing the tensed muscles as Sarah lay there appreciating the feeling of loosening muscles. "And get that posh chap of yours to put the tens machine pads right where it hurts the most," she added. "There's no point you suffering alone."

The very idea of Mycroft, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, trying to locate the pain centres in her lumbar region with sticky sensor pads was enough to make Sarah snort into the pillow. It just wasn't his kind of thing.

Through the closed massage-room door, there was a loud bang as the front door of the clinic slammed closed. Odd; there wasn't any wind outside and she could have sworn Mycroft closed the door behind him as he came in. Still, it happened sometimes. Sarah closed her eyes again and allowed herself to drift and her back warmed and eased beneath Trish's dexterous fingers.

There was a second loud bang outside, too loud for it to be the door caught in the wind.

"What in hell's name is going _on_ out there..?" Trish wiped her hands on a towel. "Excuse me for a minute," she said, draping Sarah's exposed back with another warmed towel before she walked to the door, her hand already turning the knob.

Which burst inwards as both Mycroft and his driver came hurtling through, slamming the door closed behind them. Fortunately, it was old made of solid wood and able to withstand the rough treatment.

"Jack, _the door_ " Mycroft turned to the masseuse. "Emergency exit?" his phone was at his ear calling his security people even as he strode to Sarah's side, her eyes wide with shock as he stationed himself squarely between her and the room's entrance.

"What the bloody hell's going on?" Trish stood rigid with shock as she watched the man called Jack heave a very heavy wooden bench off the floor, lifting and wedging one end up against the top of the door and the other against the foot of the massage bed. The entire door would have to be destroyed before anyone could enter the room from the front. "What in Christ's name is happening?"

" _Not now_ ," Mycroft grabbed Sarah's hand, half helping, half-dragging her off the bed, bending to slip her feet into her shoes. "Where is the emergency exit? We need to leave _now!_ "

There were further bangs as two small indentations appeared in the door, though it was not yet pierced. Flattening himself against the wall at the handle side of the door, Jack extracted a big black pistol from inside his jacket, holding it flush against the doorjamb at head height. Anyone attempting to come through uninvited would be dead before they crossed the threshold. The faint chemical smell of a fired pistol filtered in from the other room.

"The only exit from this downstairs room is through a window in there," breathless and panicky, Trish pointed to a small adjacent room where clean towels, equipment and other materials were stored. "But it's too small for Sarah to use."

" _Then you_ _go_ ," Mycroft pushed the masseuse towards the second door. "Get out and get the police here as fast as you can. Tell them someone high on drugs with a handgun is attacking people in the main street. _Go now_ ," he growled. "Get out _and don't come back_."

Turning to stare at Sarah, Trish was in an agony of indecision.

"Go," Sarah nodded. "If Mycroft says it, then it's the best thing to do; I'll be fine with these two," she managed a faint if wobbly smile. " _Run_."

"Right. I'll get the police," Trish darted into the small room where the sounds of a window being pushed opened followed by the faint thud of feet hitting the ground outside in the back lane and speeding away. Then there was nothing except the noisy appearance of two more small dents in the door.

"It's not really a junkie with a gun, is it?" Sarah rested her head on the back of Mycroft's shoulder as he stood directly in front of her, his eyes glued to the door.

"I'd surmise it's one of Mancuso's people who somehow evaded our net," Mycroft's voice was low and cold and made her shiver. "Jack recognised him."

"It's Tuttini, sir, Joey Tuttini," Jack flicked his eyes towards his boss. "Saw him outside by his car, asking directions. He must have seen me staring because the next thing I know, he's dived into his car and pulled out a gun; it was either fight it out in the main street or come in here," his mouth tightened in self-annoyance. "Sorry, Mr Holmes."

But Mycroft was speaking swiftly on the phone, urgent directives hissed into the quiet air. Completing his instructions, he inhaled deeply, his eyes never leaving the door. It was all very quiet beyond.

"He's most likely gone, sir," Jack hadn't budged. "Once he realised there was no way he'd make it through the door and that the police would be around in a matter of minutes, anyone with sense would run."

"And the rest of the team will be here in less than two minutes," Mycroft felt a fine slick of cold sweat on his forehead. It had been by chance alone that Jack had spotted the Italian mobster … pure chance. Sarah's danger had been all too real. He swallowed. This call had been too close and heads would roll. But Jack was right; anyone with even a modicum of common sense would be long gone by now.

"It's all right," extracting a white handkerchief, Mycroft dabbed the sweat from his face as he turned more fully towards Sarah who was leaning, exhaustedly against the bed. "My people will be here in moments. As soon as they've swept the area, we can return to the farmhouse and decide what to do from there; there's no urgency now."

"Mycroft, I'm sorry ... but there is." Sarah stood awkwardly, eyes closed and one arm stretched out, leaning on the massage bed, the other clutching the heavy swell of her belly. "My waters have just broken."


	21. Twenty-One

**Chapter Twenty-one**

"No, Inspector, it's not _intuition_ any more than it's something the _Tooth Fairy_ might have left behind!" Sherlock ground his teeth together as his blood-pressure headed north.

"It doesn't _matter_ what it is, Sherlock," Greg Lestrade stood with his hands on his hips, just as aggravated as the younger man. "Without tangible evidence and reason, there is _no way_ I can intercede for you in another division's operation just because _you_ want to question the man they arrested at the Marriott this morning," Lestrade sighed heavily and shook his head, exasperated. "Unless you can give me something specific to go on, there's no chance I'm taking your request higher, so if you've actually got something, rather than just having a bit of a rant, tell me now."

"He's Italian!" Sherlock lifted both hands in the air as if his announcement made everything perfectly clear.

"We've got more than a hundred-thousand Italian-born residents in London as of the last census," Greg was half- irate, half-incredulous as his own hands lifted. "Tell me why it's so bloody important for you to meet this particular representative!"

John hadn't budged from the corner where he'd been standing as the minor drama unfolded, but his expression was becoming increasingly weary.

"It's something my brother has his fingers in," digging his hands in his coat pockets, Sherlock almost spat the words. "It's an international operation between the British and Italian governments and it's currently involving a lot of people with pay grades considerably higher than yours!"

"Then I suggest you go and speak to one of _them_ ," Lestrade squared his shoulders and spoke stiffly, the insult quite enough in itself without him having to take any more.

" _I can't!_ " Sherlock's eyes were wide and his nostrils flared in outrage. "Mycroft has played these particular cards very close to his chest and, while I can make some astute predictions as to who is involved, I don't know for sure."

"Then talk to your bloody brother!" Greg rolled his eyes. "If this is as important as you say it is ..."

"Mycroft said it was _too dangerous for the family_ to have me involved!" Sherlock roared, stamping across to the window of the office and slapping a palm hard against the heavy glass. "Plus he's gone down to Kent to spend Christmas with our parents and his ..." Sherlock paused, screwing his eyes closed tight and scowling ferociously, before allowing his shoulders to drop as he stood and sighed hugely as all anger left him. He turned to face his only real colleague in Scotland Yard.

"There are assassins, Inspector," he said, quietly, finally. "Come from Italy, to abduct or possibly kill my mother, father and Mycroft's girlfriend, though Sarah's precise nomenclature is still somewhat up in the air at present," his words were quiet and matter-of-fact. "Mycroft thinks he has them all but now this man arrives and is immediately swept up and spirited away by the police but without any attempt to ensure he was acting alone or even if he was supposed to meet a local guide," Sherlock looked resigned. "I recognise my brother's ham-fisted approach here, but all I ask is five minutes with the prisoner simply to verify that Mycroft hasn't actually missed something," he paused again. "These are _my parents_ I'm talking about, Graham," Sherlock sounded truly distraught, his eyes glassy with tears.

" _Jesus_ , Sherlock," Greg rubbed a hand over his face. If it was this bad, bad enough to even worry someone like Sherlock Holmes ... "I'll do what I can to get you in, but I'm not promising anything and you can't barge in like you usually do or I'll lose what little clout I have over there. Hang on a minute and I'll see what I can organise, okay?"

Dropping into his chair, the Yarder dug around in spilled files until he located his desk phone. Picking up the handset, he dialled an internal number. By the window, Sherlock instantly lost his woebegone expression and turned to John, raising his eyebrows in an anticipatory fashion.

Still in the corner, his flatmate shook his head, mildly disgusted.

"Hello, Phil ... yeah, it is. Look mate, I need to get someone in for a couple of minutes chat with your pick up of this morning ... yeah, _I know_ ... I do realise, but ... well, yes; I can see how that might be an issue, _however_ ..." there were several seconds silence as he listened intently, his eyes arriving on Sherlock's face which was once again on the brink of genuine anguish. "It's Sherlock Holmes is who it is," Lestrade waited, before nodding. "Good. I'll bring him and his colleague, Doctor Watson across in a tick ... yeah, I really do owe you one, cheers mate."

Puffing out a slow breath, Lestrade stood, grabbing his coat. "Come on then," he held the office door open. "I've got you five minutes."

###

To his credit, Mycroft's sense of the world imploding about his ears lasted no more than two seconds.

"Can you walk to the car?" his arm was curved around Sarah's back supporting her upright, even as the question passed his lips. "I can have an ambulance here from Swanley Army barracks within seven minutes if you prefer not to move, my dear," he helped her sit back down on the edge of the massage bed. "Are you ... do you need to lie down?"

All Sarah could do for the minute was grab his arm and shake her head as she was gripped by the worst cramping she had ever felt.

The sound of a car screeching to a halt outside in the main street was heard, just before official voices shouted and equally official fists pounded on the other side of the solid door.

"Police! _Open up!_ "

Nodding to his boss who once more positioned himself between Sarah and the door, Jack shouted that he wanted to see formal identification before anyone was opening anything. "I have a registered weapon in my hand," he made the fact very clearly known. "Anyone attempting to enter this room without formal ID will regret it."

"Don't be so bloody daft, lad," a male, vaguely Welsh voice sounded through the wood of the door. "Here's my ID and I'd like it back in once piece, if you don't mind."

There was a faint scrabbling on the wooden boards as a neat leather wallet slid under the door through a gap just large enough to take it. Whipping it off the floor, Jack checked the details in a second before presenting the _bona fides_ to his boss.

The identification was genuine Mycroft noted, right down to the worn edge of leather where the wallet constantly rubbed up against the ubiquitous ballpoint pen that all police officers carried in their breast pockets.

On getting the nod, Jack informed his audience that he were coming out and he had his gun licence in his hand for them to see. He heaved the bench aside but kept hold of the gun.

"Can you move at all?" Mycroft's eyes were tight with concern as he slid his hands to the top of Sarah's arms, holding her steady on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

The pain temporarily gone, Sarah realised that, for better or worse, she was in labour. At that moment, a great surge of panic almost overwhelmed her; the feeling that everything was about to go wrong, that all her carefully-laid plans would be for nothing ... But the feel of strong hands holding her close and the knowledge that Mycroft would never allow anything terrible to happen to either her or the baby ... With a sharp sigh, she relaxed, allowing everything to flow through her without resistance. Things were pretty much out of her hands now in any case.

As she calmed, the beginnings of panic retreated and she was able to think. Maybe she'd been in early labour for a while, considering how painful her back had been. Or perhaps it had been the shock of knowing a man with a gun had tried to shoot his way through a door not five feet from where she sat. Either way, her son was quite definitely on his way and she'd better get her shit together.

She'd also read quite enough about the process of childbirth to know roughly where she was in the scheme of things. The only question now, was could she hang on for the hour it would take to drive back up to her luxuriously appointed hospital delivery suite? Early labour and especially a first labour was supposed to take hours. It really depended on how long it was between ... she screwed her eyes tight and thumped her forehead against Mycroft's chest as another spasm of cramp made itself at home. Her back was killing her as well.

Which answered one question.

"I don't think I can get to London in time," she muttered the words through gritted teeth as the seconds of sharp discomfort ticked by. "And now he's started, I don't think he wants to hang around." A long sigh of relief greeted the end of the last contraction.

"The baby ..?" Mycroft looked so grim that Sarah had to smile.

"Mycroft, it's fine, really," she sat up a little and stretched her back. "He's just decided to come this side of Christmas, that's all," she sighed. "I may end up having him in your parent's spare bedroom. I hope they won't mind."

"I believe we can do better than that," Jack returned with two uniformed police officers standing behind him in the now open doorway. "There's a small cottage hospital just on the corner of Bower Lane. I can get you there in two minutes. There's a full maternity room, though I doubt it'll be anything too fancy."

"You are a man of many talents, Jack," Mycroft's eyes never left Sarah's face. "Can you make it to the car, my dear?" his voice was so soft and his expression so solicitous that Sarah brushed her fingertips over his mouth.

"I wish I'd known this Mycroft Holmes a year ago," she whispered. "It would have made life a lot simpler."

"Darling, let's get you to the car," taking one side of her while Jack supported Sarah's other elbow, they walked slowly to the front of the massage clinic where an agonised-looking Trish stood among a small group of bystanders on the narrow pavement, her face twisted with worry.

"Oh, _thank god_ ," she groaned in relief as she saw the three of them coming out together, only to pause as she realised Sarah was not walking as much as she was being half-carried. "Sarah?"

"Next time you get to do my back, I'll be bringing a little friend with me," Sarah tried to keep her expression calm as another wave of pain washed over her. Oddly, her back hurt less now that she was standing but there was no more time for conversation as Jack was already at the car with the rear door open.

"We'll take the lead and show you the way," the older policeman smiled and called over as Sarah levered herself into the back seat of the Jaguar. "Don't you worry, my girl. My missus had all of ours up at the local place; you'll be right as ninepence up there." Both cars started, the front one now sporting a festively flashing blue light.

Mycroft's phone was at his ear and Sarah vaguely heard him barking out all sorts of instructions to people as she stretched beside him catching her breath.

###

A seething Joseph Tuttini pulled his car into the middle of a small and reasonably full carpark just off Eynsford's main shopping centre, not that a few shops, a petrol station and a couple of pubs might be considered much of a centre from anything. His car was inconspicuous and would not be spotted as out of place for a long time.

How had this situation gone so wrong so fast?

He remembered asking directions of two women his mother's age; such old women always knew everything about everyone. He had given them the name he had been asked to find, _Lillian Stuart_. This apparently was an interesting name as the women had looked strangely at each other before telling him he was out of date and that what he needed, was the Holmes farmhouse off Crockenhill Lane.

 _Holmes?_

They also said that if he was another guest staying for Christmas, then the best way to get there was to go up the lane and then take the first fork on the right, the farmhouse being right at the end of the narrow bit of road.

It was then that the uniformed driver of the expensive black Jaguar looked out of his car, staring at him even more strangely than the old women had.

Tuttini knew himself to have been hand-picked by Soren Mancuso to locate and acquire the two women and this was not the most dangerous or difficult situation he had been in before. He had seen men that stared at him, just like the driver of the expensive car had done It was never a good sign, especially as only a second later, the man had run into the massage place and the Italian realised he had to follow and silence the one witness who might be able to identify him to the police.

But then everything had gone to hell and now he was sitting in a carpark looking at a map of the local area on his phone.

Crockenhill Lane was easy to find; it was the nearest direct route from Eynsford to the M25. Tuttini had even considered using it himself as the swiftest route away from this place. But _why_ had he been directed to the residence of a family called Holmes? Unless the woman Stuart was using a professional name as so many women did these days? Might his target be better known as _Lillian Holmes_?

He had no choice but to attempt to complete the contract. A police car had already flown down the road, lights flashing and siren blaring; he had no time to lose.

Starting his car, the Italian dropped the phone onto the seat beside him, following its instructions on how to reach the farmhouse in Crockenhill Lane. It was not far.

###

It took less than a second to know the man in the dark suit sitting at the table was a trained assassin. The negligible but permanent list to the right from carrying a heavy pistol in a left-sided shoulder holster; his fine awareness of movement at the periphery of his vision; the way he had chosen the side of the table where the light worked in his favour, rather than against him. The constant wariness of all those in the room with him and the almost grudging respect for the senior officer in charge.

Sherlock smiled absently. Hardened, disciplined; a soldier. _Mafioso_.

Throwing himself into the seat opposite, the younger Holmes caught and held the man's unwilling attention as he leaned forward, fractionally. "My brother is a Don," he whispered. "He's ruthless and has a very, _very_ long reach. You came here to hurt his family, what do you think he will do to yours?" Sherlock's gaze flicked from the man's hands to the crook of his right arm. "To your wife and child?"

The Italian remained silent but everyone in the room saw his back stiffen.

"A little girl, am I right?" Sherlock leaned back now, knowing he had the man's complete attention. "My brother's child, his first child, actually, is going to be a boy," Sherlock examined his nails. "Have you any conception how far my brother will go to protect his first-born son and the mother of his child?" Holding up his fingers to the light for critical inspection, Sherlock arched his eyebrows and continued, almost disinterestedly. "He will find your family," there was a pause as Sherlock glanced briefly at the other man's tie. "In ... Naples," he nodded. "And he will hurt them and then they will die," the smile on his face was cruel. "And the only thing that will stop this inevitability," Sherlock's cold smile grew marginally. "Is you," he added, leaning even further across the table. "Answer my questions and I will intercede on your behalf. Remain silent and your soul will be damned with the preventable deaths of your wife and your ..."

" _All right!_ " the Italian slammed a hand down on the table. "Ask me what you will," he rubbed a palm across his face. "Just leave my family alone and I'll tell you everything I know. I swear."

"Excellent," Sherlock sat back, linking his fingers in his lap. "Who else did Soren Mancuso send and how did you plan to meet up with them after the abduction had been completed?"

Raising his eyes to the calm fact of the tall man sitting opposite him in a heavy dark coat, the Italian shook his head. "The Mancusos will kill me if I tell you," he sounded unutterably weary.

"Any my brother will have you killed if you do not," Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "But there may be a way for each of us to get what we need ..."

###

Eynsford Cottage Hospital was a double-fronted Victorian villa on a slight hill, red-bricked, with white-painted bay windows on either side of the trellised central front door. Just up from the corner of Bower Lane, it was screened from the road by a well-trimmed privet hedge, a large, leafless Sycamore and a small stretch of green lawn. There was a white lamppost stationed at the edge of the lawn adjacent to the drive and a couple of pretty ancient cars parked away in one corner. The drive itself was to the higher side of the hospital, an extensive tarmacked parking area where ambulances could turn around after collecting or delivering patients for or from any of the larger or more specialised London hospitals.

This close to Christmas, there was only one current occupant in the hospital itself; an ancient smallholder who'd come down with double pneumonia after letting a chest cold turn to bronchitis, waiting for his daughter to take him home to Tunbridge Wells for the festive season. Overall, it was a fairly quiet spot in a very quiet English village.

The police car, flashing blue lights and siren wailing was first to screech to a halt in the carpark, both officers flinging open their doors simultaneously; one running to open the hospital entrance and the other to see if any additional assistance was needed in the transfer of the labouring woman into the place which, for better or worse, would see her confinement.

The shiny black Jaguar swept into the wide drive area mere seconds behind the white police vehicle. The instant it came to a halt, both the driver's door and one of the rear doors opened wide. Jack flew around the front of the big car in order to ensure nobody else entered the drive area behind them and to offer his assistance with Sarah, should such assistance be required.

"There will be other arrivals," Mycroft muttered in passing as he helped Sarah lever herself from the car, pausing as another contraction hit. All he could do was stand with her, out in the chill winter air and hope there were no Italian visitors in range. _How had his people missed the second man?_ By every piece of intelligence they had, there were only two final emissaries from Mancuso; one they had picked up at the Marriott, the other arrested as he descended the steps of his jet at Biggin Hill. It was obvious the plane that took Sarah and his mother over to San Vincenzo would be backtracked to their point of departure; hardly rocket science to keep an eye on all incoming private flights, especially those from Italy. But if the man from the morning's flight was in custody, where had Tuttini come from?

Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted as Sarah sagged hard against him, her face pressed deep into the front of his suit, her low groan of pain vibrating against his skin.

"I need to move, Mycroft," she husked. "Help me stand up, please."

"I've got Doctor Mandal coming down from London with a police escort," he murmured close to her ear as his arms took more of her weight, lifting. "She'll be here inside the hour, so all you have to do my darling, is hang on for a little while longer."

"Not sure I'm really in charge of things any more, Mycroft," Sarah sucked down a deep breath and stood straighter, the pain in abeyance for the moment. "Your son is probably going to be as bloody-minded and autocratic about this whole birth thing as you've been."

"I have not."

"Darling Mycroft, yes you have," Sarah laughed breathlessly, but she was feeling suddenly rather frightened and alone. If there was ever a time when she would have appreciated having her mother close by, it would be now.

 _Darling Mycroft._ It was the shock, obviously.

"I also had my mother picked up from the farmhouse. She's on her way here right ..."

The sound of another car pulling into the asphalted area drew their attention, the driver already opening the rear passenger door almost before the car was properly parked.

Both Lillian and Bill Holmes were assisted out onto the hospital driveway, their gazes turning immediately towards their eldest son and the woman he was holding.

" _Mycroft!_ " Lillian absorbed the situation in an instant. "We need to get Sarah inside and comfortable," she declaimed in no uncertain terms, pointing to the hospital entrance. "Really, you men are absolutely _hopeless_."

"A hand, Jack, if you wouldn't mind?" Mycroft held Sarah close until his driver arrived to take her other arm. At almost the same moment, a uniformed nurse ran out from the main door to meet them.

"Emergency delivery?" she asked, risking Mycroft's eternal ire for stating the blatantly obvious. Between Mycroft and his driver, Sarah was brought through the wide main door and into the ground floor level rooms.

"Down the back to your right," the nurse directed, looking as if she wished she wasn't the only one on duty at this time of day.

The delivery room was big, mostly empty and very quiet. The nondescript wall paint, the sterile, vaguely antiseptic smell and somewhat spartan surrounds enhanced the feeling that everything that went on in here was nothing to get worked up over and the basic facilities were more than competent to do their job.

"Have her lie down here," Mummy was quite the tyrant, Mycroft realised, as he helped raise Sarah onto the high, white-sheeted bed.

"Right, now clear out, the lot of you," Lillian was already holding Sarah's hand, her expression not one to be crossed unless it be for the declaration of a third world war. "This is women's work."

Suddenly and horribly uncertain, Mycroft paused as he watched the woman who was about to deliver his first and probably his only child, swathed in crisp white sheets, her clothing and footwear making way for a hospital gown and, for some ungodly reason, long white socks. Did he want to leave? Did Sarah want him to leave?

The answer was moot, as Sarah groaned into another contraction and his mother shooed him out the door, closing it fast behind him.

"Probably not long now, sir," Jack nodded cheerfully. "Seems as if your lady is cracking on with the job."

For a driver, Jack suddenly seemed to know a very great deal about the maternity accommodations in the area and about the process of delivering a baby generally. Quite odd, really considering the man was single and never married.

"How did you know about the facilities here, Jack?" Mycroft's voice was soft and almost distracted. "And how are you suddenly so well informed about such ... operational details?"

His grin widening, Jack squinted one eye closed. "My _friend_ , sir," he said. "The one I've been staying with when we've come down here for the night. "Her name's Emma and she's a nurse," the grin, if anything, got bigger.

Of course she was. Had his thoughts not been so otherwise occupied, Mycroft would have observed the miniscule but very neat vertical mattress stitch repair to the lapel of Jack's coat.

"And your nurse friend works here?" Mycroft felt a de-escalation of an inner tension.

Raising his eyebrows and offering a small, smug smile, Jack shoved his hands in his pocket.

"The main security team has been situated around the perimeter, sir," Jack looked around, thoughtfully. "A couple of them have remained at your parent's house to ensure there's no funny business, but the rest are here I'll just go wait outside, shall I?" he hesitated. "Or would you like me to pop down the village and get everyone something to eat; might be a bit of a long business, this being Miss Sarah's first, and all that."

Raising his own eyebrows in mild exasperation at the sudden _bonhomie_ , Mycroft rested the flat of one hand on the closed door beside him. There was the faint sound of voices from within, followed by the rising note of Sarah's voice as she was again caught by a the pain of a contraction.

Despite himself, Mycroft felt a dampness in the palms of his hands. The urge to open the door and simply stay with Sarah was very strong, no matter what his mother might have concluded. Checking his watch, he phoned to clarify the ETA of Doctor Mandal.

Twenty minutes, give or take.

Twenty minutes in which he would not move from this door.

###

"Kent, John," Sherlock Holmes checked his watch and blinked, the various routes between London and his parent's Eynsford farmhouse rattling through his mind in fractions of a second. The A20 was the obvious bet; a fast police car with blaring sirens and no speed limitation could probably make it in thirty minutes, but any such arrival would be known by all. The quieter back roads were more discreet but would take closer to a full hour to traverse. There was one other possibility. Taking out his phone, he speed-dialled a number he had promised Mycroft he would no longer call to ask for a helicopter he had sworn never to use again.

###

There were two problems with these narrow British lanes, Tuttini realised as he navigated his car slowly up a hill between two towering hedgerows. One, anyone coming the other way could block your passage simply by occupying the middle of the road and two, you couldn't see if anyone was coming the other way until you were bumper to bumper.

Knowing where your enemies were made them easier to avoid and Joey Tuttini was not a man to give up on a contract simply because someone had recognised him. There was still time; time to find Lillian Stuart and maybe even time to find out where the Lawrence signorina was ... women were easy to handle. Smack them a little and they soon came around.

Arriving at the triple junction in the lane, he drove carefully down the fork the old woman had told him was the way to the Holmes _fattoria_ , an old place, right at the end of the narrow lane. It was a matter of moments before he saw the shape of a high, grey-tiled roof and a deep pink red painted house come into view. There was another one of the shiny black cars in the driveway and two men sitting in the front seats, already opening their respective doors as they saw the stranger arrive.

Slamming his foot on the accelerator, Tuttini rammed the front of the car with all the speed his own vehicle could summon, jamming the black car violently backwards and hurling the two men to the ground where both of them were knocked completely unconscious as the car doors rebounded forcefully, laying them out cold as cleanly as if he'd tapped them himself.

Which suggested he'd found the right house.

And now he'd taken care of the minders, it also looked like there was nothing stopping him from taking care of whoever was inside. With a relaxed grin, Tuttini pulled out the Beretta out of his jacket and walked slowly towards the front door of the farmhouse.

###

The police car carrying Anni Mandal broke not only the speed limit getting her from London down to Eynsford but also the speed record. The Indian doctor was as pleased to have reached her destination as was her driver, though for entirely different reasons.

Escorting her into the cottage hospital, the police driver also carried the doctor's substantial black box, almost too big to be considered a bag though it did have a handle at the top. Cutting a swathe through the assorted security personnel gathered in the hospital driveway, Doctor Mandal strode through the big house until she reached the required room, only to be faced by Cerberus in a Savile Row suit.

"I'm here," she announced, needlessly. "How's Sarah?"

"In there," Mycroft stood away from the door, giving the obstetrician access.

"And why are you out here while she is in there?" Anni Mandal threw him a questioning look. "She's going to need every bit of support she can get; this is not going to be easy for her, you realise."

"Does she need to get to London?" a cold fear flopped around Mycroft's stomach.

"It's easier for me to get the air-ambulance than you, I think," the doctor rested a calming hand on his forearm. "And it might not come to that, but be ready to move very quickly; there'll be no time for dithering if I need to move Sarah in a hurry."

Biting back a desire to respond to the accusation of dithering, Mycroft simply inclined his head and opened the door.

Lillian looked up, visibly relieved when she saw Sarah's specialist enter the room, complete with black bag.

And her son.

His eyes were on Sarah from the moment he stepped inside the room, noting her general pallor, as well as the unnatural flush that painted the skin around her eyes and upper cheeks. Pain shaped her every breath and it was all he could do to stop himself from calling up an army rescue helicopter on the spot.

"Sarah, do you want your partner to leave?" Doctor Mandal was already unpacking her equipment and medications, prior to washing her hands and gowning up. "I need someone strong to hold you upright and I think Mycroft is the very best option, but I can ask the duty nurse if you'd prefer?"

"Mycroft, stay please," Sarah sounded exhausted. Closing her eyes, she moaned softly. "Something feels wrong," she said. "I think the baby's stuck inside."

"Given his size, I can't say I'm terribly surprised," Anni Mandal coiled her long dark hair up inside a surgical cap before washing her hands thoroughly. Once her hands were clean, the duty nurse assisted her in donning sterile scrubs and long latex gloves. "It would have been simpler to go for a Caesar," she said quietly. Laying her warm hands gently and carefully either side of Sarah's rigid belly, feeling the way the baby was positioned. "But there's nothing wrong with doing this the traditional way either, especially as your young man is so keen to join everyone for Christmas," she smiled behind her mask. "It'll just take a bit longer and you're going to be that much more tired," the doctor paused as she saw the way Sarah was lying with a pillow doubled up hard beneath her back. "Is your back causing you pain?"

"It's bloody killing me," Sarah closed her eyes as another contraction hit and she clamped her lips together to hold in a cry.

Lillian was almost as pale as Sarah as she clutched Mycroft's arm. She hadn't had this problem with either of the boys, even though they had both been on the big side. And she realised that even today, women still died in childbirth. It was a horrible thought. Perhaps Mycroft really shouldn't be in here, after all.

"Then I'm going to give you an epidural," Doctor Mandal nodded almost to herself. "Normally, this would be done by an anaesthesiologist, but your baby is in a semi-breech position and I have to turn him a little before he can be born the way nature intended and we have no time to wait. I need you to stop pushing until I've got him properly aligned, and the only way I can do that and relieve your pain is with an epidural injection. I have successfully administered this form of pain management on multiple occasions. Do you agree for me to do this?"

"Yes, oh god please, please, _please_ ..." Sarah reached around for something to hold and found Mycroft's hand, right where it needed to be.

As Sarah's fingers clamped around his, Mycroft examined Anni Mandal's face with a fierce scrutiny. Was it safe for her to do this? She wasn't an anaesthesiologist, she might make a mistake. This was his son's life in the balance here, his son and the woman he ... he felt Sarah's fingers close tight around his own. His son and the woman he did not want to lose, _could not lose_. Not now, not like this.

Anni Mandal returned his glower with a calm appraisal.

One look at Mycroft's face told Lillian that, for better or worse, he had already accepted the situation. The duty nurse was laying out towels and wraps and other equipment in a most orderly fashion and there was no need for another onlooker. She would only be in the way.

"Then unless you need a fourth pair of hands, I think I'll go and find daddy and perhaps take him home for a break from all this excitement," Lillian felt her voice wobbling a little now that the emergency of the situation was ebbing.

"Go and have some tea, Mummy," Mycroft's voice was gentler than Lillian had ever heard him be, even when Sherlock was young. "I'll call if you can help, I promise."

"Be sure you do," Lillian meant to sound dependable but ended up sounding more like a wavery old woman. Yes, best she go and leave the experts to it. As the door closed behind her, the nurse was already manoeuvring Sarah more onto her side so that her spine was unobstructed. After wiping the area with iodine, the obstetrician was ready to go.

"I'm going to be injecting a very fine catheter directly into the epidural space," she murmured, her fingertips feeling alongside each of Sarah's bony vertebrae. "I'll only be giving you a small amount of Ropivacaine combined with an analgesic and I can always give more later if needed," she said, finding exactly the right spot and marking with a pen. "You shouldn't feel anything at all as I've already given you a touch of surface anaesthetic where the injection will go," she added, preparing the needle behind Sarah's back.

To Mycroft's eyes, it seemed obscenely long and dangerous.

"Here we go," Mandal sounded very calm. "Now keep absolutely still for me for about twenty seconds, please."

Feeling a firm pressure on the middle of her back, Sarah was about to respond when she was hit by another ferocious contraction. Screwing her eyes tight and gripping Mycroft's hands with everything that she could, Sarah whimpered behind a jaw clamped tight.

"I think we should call him Bertram," Mycroft leaned down, smoothing back long sweat-damped hairs from her face. "It has a certain ring, don't you agree?"

" _Bertram?_ " Sarah was suddenly and horribly aghast. "Are you _insane?_ Not even if that's one of your middle names am I calling our son _Bertram_."

"Then how might you feel about Hadley?" Mycroft's voice was light and intentionally amused. "Or Norville," he pondered. "Always a favourite, though I believe Her Majesty would prefer Salisbury."

" _Have you been drinking?_ " Sarah caught her breath as the contraction passed and she was able to relax for a few moments. "Those are truly _terrible_ names."

"All done," the obstetrician stepped back, allowing the nurse to move in with some medical tape to stop the catheter from moving about and making it safe to lie on.

"Done?" Sarah didn't know if laughing hysterically might be a bad sign, but everything today was on its head; all her careful planning flung to the winds. And it was Mycroft, of all people, who was keeping her grounded. "You don't _really_ like Bertram, do you?" she asked, more for reassurance than confirmation.

Mycroft pressed the back of her hand to his mouth and smiled against the heated skin. "Not particularly," he said, glancing across at the doctor who tapped her wristwatch and held up a handful of outspread fingers. _Five minutes before the injection started to work_. "Though I confess I am a little curious as to the names you _have_ been considering," he said candidly, pulling an old seat over towards the high bed so he could sit and meet Sara's eyes without her having to strain her neck. "Have you, in fact, thought of any at all?"

Behind Sarah's back, Anni Mandal nodded. _Four minutes_.

"I was thinking of Christopher, actually," Sarah sounded unusually hesitant, but it was the name itself that had Mycroft sitting back, blinking rapidly in surprise.

"Christopher is my father's middle name," he said quietly.

"Really?" Sarah found herself smiling despite everything. "It was my father's middle name too."

"Then Christopher it shall be," Mycroft brought up his other hand to clasp hers between them. "But what about a middle name? Any self-respecting British gentleman requires a middle name, if only to meet the minimum standards of a stylish monogram."

"You are such a dreadful snob," Sarah felt the pressure of another contraction building and tightened her grip. "Though I agree. A good middle name can be a useful thing."

"Something tasteful for the monogram, perhaps?" Mycroft watched the tensing of her features as Sarah waited for the ordeal to begin again, felt her whole body ready itself for the inevitable pain.

"If you suggest anything like Bertram, I swear I'll call him Wayne or Donny or something," Sarah hissed as the first brush of discomfort made itself known.

"Well really, "Mycroft rubbed the tip of his nose thoughtfully against her hand, "I quite like Wyndham ... unless you feel that's unspeakably nineteenth-century?"

"Wyndham?" Sarah's eyes unfocused for a moment as she tasted the name in her mind. "Wyndham," she smiled. "A good writer's name is that," she paused, abruptly introspective. "There's no pain," she said, wonderingly. "There's absolutely no pain at all," her fingers relaxed around Mycroft's hands. "Not even my back hurts as much as it did ... in fact ..." Sarah flexed her body cautiously. There was only a moderate twinge. "It's _wonderful_."

"Excellent," Doctor Mandal nodded again in satisfaction. "Let's get you into a position where I can do what needs to be done and then let's see if we can deliver your son in time for tea, shall we?"

A glance over Sarah's shoulder at Mycroft's intense expression was all she needed to see. He stood and slowly removed his jacket.

###

The farmhouse was still and quiet, but that might easily be because someone was hiding. Tuttini knew this was the house where Lillian Stuart was supposed to live and there'd be little reason to have two guards outside an empty house, would there?

Walking slowly into the old building, he noted the burning log fire in the fireplace; not recently tended but not in any danger of dying out. It had been fed fairly recently. There was a reasonably fresh fragrance of brewed coffee in the kitchen; again, an aroma that strong could only have been made only in the last half-hour or so.

Making his way silently into the main downstairs hallway, he stopped suddenly, his ears catching the faintest of sounds at what might have been the back door of the house; the sound of a door being closed carefully so that it made no noise. Fortunately, Tuttini had excellent hearing. Moving with purpose now, he strode swiftly towards the end of the house where the sound had originated. There was the end of the passageway. There was a door. _An almost closed door_. A smile shifted his face, though the left side of his mouth did not move.

Outside, the long winter's grass was threaded through with worn muddy pathways, most of them smudged with old footprints. The one leading around the back of the house was different, showing a series of sharp neat footprints. Levelling the Beretta, Tuttini crept cautiously around the corner of the building, his eyes catching sight of some kind of wood and wire construction between several low and leafless trees. There was a flicker of movement as something, _someone_ , seemed to be hiding.

"I can see you," he called out, victory in every syllable.

"Yeah, and I can see you, _mate_ ," holding a heavy branch in his hands John Watson stepped out from behind a pile of rough-sawn logs. With a vicious swing of his arm, he landed a solid blow on the intruder's hand sending the Beretta flying and almost knocking the man to his knees.

Only just managing to stay upright, Tuttini dragged a flick-knife from the sleeve of his coat, the wicked blade flashing in the pale December sunshine. Swinging it horizontally backwards and forwards at his attacker's midsection, it was all John could do to keep his midriff arced away from the razor's tip. A particularly wide sweep managed to slice the edge of his jacket.

"Could use a little help over here!" he called out to nobody in particular, dodging and weaving to stay beyond the long reach of the knife.

"So you like to dance, eh?" Joey Tuttini could see the shorter blond man was already tiring and the Italian's lopsided smile returned. "First I cut you and then I find the old woman and then maybe I come back and let her watch while I make you pretty for her, shall I?"

"Not today, thank you," Sherlock was standing directly behind the assassin, who swung around to meet the new threat, his dagger still outstretched. "Meet Bertie," Sherlock threw the cockerel directly at the Italian's head who screamed as the large elderly bird screeched, flapped, clawed and scratched vigorously at anything his talons could reach; hands, face, scalp. In seconds, Tuttini was down on his knees, desperately trying to fend off an infuriated chicken.

"There are two more where he came from and they're all killers," Sherlock waited until the Italian was on the ground before picking up the gun and throwing it over to John. "Hold him still for a moment while I organise an appropriate method of containment," he said, bending once again to gather up a still-ruffled Bertie, before striding away.

Holding the black pistol unnaturally steady, John poked the downed man with his foot. "Are you the only one or should we be ready for some other joker to arrive?"

"Go to hell," Joey Tuttini sat on the cold ground, wiping the bloodied cuts and grazes on his face and hands with a handkerchief.

"You have absolutely no idea what kind of trouble you're in, do you?" John grinned. "This is one family you do not mess around with," the grin widened. "His brother's a Don."

###

"Well, you'll have to start holding him at some point," Sarah lay back against fresh pillows as the bed was changed around her. She had already been the recipient of a quick wash while Anni Mandal was taking Christopher's Apgar, which was a clear ten by the way he yelled his head off, pink and wriggling, the second he was born. His weight was nine pounds six ounces and he was just on twenty-four inches long. Olympic stock if there ever was.

Mycroft sat, partially slumped in the chair beside the bed, still in shock. Once the obstetrician had managed to reposition the baby, things had moved very quickly and his son _his son his son_ had been born at eleven minutes past six in the evening. As soon as he'd been weighed and cleaned, Sarah had put him to her breast without any fuss or bother. She could feel her feet but very little else from the waist down but knew such a state of affairs couldn't last forever. Suckling for only a few minutes, the infant fell asleep.

"I need to go to the bathroom before this wonderful painkiller wears off completely," Sarah beckoned Mycroft to come and hold his child. "Just hold him for a bit while he's asleep, would you? I doubt I'll be too long."

As the duty nurse helped Sarah cautiously upright, Mycroft sat back in the chair as a surprisingly solid lump of baby was placed delicately in his nervous arms.

He could feel the warm length of the baby's legs enveloped in the soft cotton wrap. They seemed incredibly long, but then the rest of him was long too. A fuzz of dark hair capped a smooth skull which seemed a little flattened at the sides but which he had been assured would soon round out. A miniscule pair of hands were clasped, prayer-like in front of his ... in front of _Christopher's_ face.

Utterly lost in contemplation of the feel of his child, Mycroft was completely unprepared when a pair of eyes opened suddenly to stare unblinkingly upwards at him with an unfocused crystalline blue gaze. It was the most profound expression of trust Mycroft had ever experienced and his throat tightened to the point of discomposure.

Which was how Sarah found them both as she hobbled back to the bed on the arm of the nurse. Mycroft, perched on a small wooden chair; jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, waistcoat undone and tie missing, gazing down into the eyes of his new-born child.

It would do she decided, as her own eyes misted. It would do.

###

"You put him in with the chickens?" Lillian paused as she poured a fresh sherry for herself, shock lifting her eyebrows. "In the chicken coop?"

"Best place for him, Mummy," Sherlock accepted a refill of his glass from the decanter Mycroft was carrying around. "Though I confess to feeling a modicum of guilt at forcing Mildred and Angelique to stomach his presence," he paused. "However, Bertie was a complete trooper and defended their honour valiantly and with great enthusiasm."

The farmhouse kitchen was warm and festive for Christmas day and for once, not even the brothers' continued proximity appeared to be unbearable. A civilised peacefulness had survived since Sherlock and John arrived before lunch, the younger Holmes leaving a large, heavy box on a spare part of the kitchen table.

"A Christopher present," he'd said, an odd smile on his face.

"If it's dangerous, it'll stay in the box until he's old enough to play with it," Mycroft looked up over a copy of _The Times_ ; the political obituaries were always more fulsome at Christmas. Assessing the shape, size and general contours of the box, his eyebrows arched. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Not yet having mastered the art of telepathy, I couldn't begin to tell you what you think it might be, _Bro_ ," Sherlock filched a mince tart from a heaped plate, avoiding his mother's attempted smack.

"Don't you think Christopher is a shade too young to have a worm farm?" Mycroft sounded resigned.

"One is never too young to have a worm farm," Sherlock sniffed, taking a second mince tart.

"Lunch will be ready in half-an-hour," Lillian sounded marginally irritated. "If you fill yourself up with sweeties now, you won't eat a proper meal."

"I'll be delighted to ensure all your hard work does not go unappreciated, Mrs Holmes," John smirked at his flatmate as Lillian handed him a tart of his own.

"All done," Sarah walked in with Christopher in her arms. "He's been fed and changed and should drop off in about two minutes. Who wants to hold him while I get myself a drink?"

"Sit," Mycroft dropped his paper, about to stand and get Sarah what she wanted, just as she saw John standing there, curiosity written all over his face.

"Here you go, John," she said softly, handing the blond man the shawl-wrapped bundle. "Christopher needs to get to know different people."

Happy to take the baby, John walked him slowly around the kitchen, smiling and murmuring quietly. It was inevitable that Sherlock watched.

And equally inevitable that John would know it.

Walking around the kitchen again in a slow arc, John paused just before he reached his friend's chair.

"Not a chance," Sherlock saw perfectly well what John was intending and beat him to it, holding both hands back at shoulder-level. "I am unsuitable for babies."

"Your uncle's full of rubbish, is what he is," John advised Christopher at the same time as he lowered the heavy bundle adroitly down into Sherlock's lap before stepping away, arms folded.

Unable to pick the baby up and put it somewhere else or hand it back to John, Sherlock was trapped, automatically curling a long arm around the child to ensure that no unexpected movement might send him falling.

Standing over by the sink, Mycroft finished pouring Sarah a drink from the last of the non-alcoholic bubbly, his eyes fastened intently on his brother. About to issue a warning, Mycroft stilled as Sarah rested a hand on his, shaking her head when he met her eyes. Sweeping his gaze back to Sherlock, he experienced a moment of near disbelief as he watched his younger brother fold back the top edge of the shawl to better see the infant's features. It was a moment of pure theatre.

"Thank god he's got Sarah's nose," Sherlock observed, sliding his free arm beneath Christopher's head and neck. "With luck, he might end up nothing like his father whatsoever," he added, his voice dropping to a near croon as Christopher grinned a gaping jerky smile.

"Try not to breathe alcohol fumes all over him, Sherlock," Mycroft guided Sarah to the chair next to his. "Two days old is fractionally _too_ young to deal with malt scotch."

"And I certainly hope you have your mamma's personality or you're going to have a hellish childhood," Sherlock continued to croon.

"When you've quite finished maligning me to my son, I'd like a brief word, Sherlock," Mycroft walked across to collect a gurning baby, handing him back to Sarah. "Won't be long," he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

Out in the back garden, neither man took the opportunity to sneak in their ritual Christmas cigarette; the idea of breathing smoke over Christopher simply impossible.

"Your little idea has produced fruit," he said. "I have a job for you and John," Mycroft came to the point. "It requires you to return briefly to San Vincenzo."

"To do what?" Sherlock frowned, unwilling to be too interested.

"To make a film."

###

 _Three months later._

"I'll be there very shortly my dear," he ended the conversation with Sarah, already waiting at the Langham for lunch. "Ten minutes at most."

Standing, Mycroft flicked the short recording to play the last sixty seconds one more time. The images settled into a picture of Lucien Fesch making a video call from his laptop.

"And so it is with deep sadness that I tell you my brother, _mio_ _migliore amico_ , the most genteel Signor Soren Mancuso, has this day been found dead by the police in Rome," Fesch paused, his features genuinely anguished, struggling with tears. "I have seen his body myself and swear his death to be genuine," Fesch hesitated again, swallowing hard. "I shall miss my _bennefattore_ with all my heart."

Even though there was an almost unnoticeable silver glow to the shoulder of Fesch's outline at one point, it would be easily removed in a spot of highly classified post-production. It was indeed a work of art. Soren Mancuso was alive and well and singing like a canary. The film-work of the digitalised Fesch was rather good; Sherlock had excelled himself.

"Hidden depths, little brother," Mycroft smiled, slipping into his coat on a raw March day. In rare high spirits he got into his car, nodding to his driver as he did so.

"Does your fiancée approve of our wedding gift?"

"She loves it, Mr Holmes," Jack was all grin. "I still can't work out how you and Miss Sarah knew my Emma needed a new car; she can't believe anyone would be so generous."

"Compared to the gift Sarah and I received, it's a minor thing," Mycroft smiled warmly.

"The Langham, sir?" Jack was already pulling the Jaguar out of the parking space.

"Indeed. I'm meeting Sarah for lunch."

Lunch and a conversation that was long overdue.

On several occasions since Christmas, Sarah had begun to discuss a particular topic, only to change her mind before the subject had been properly broached and Mycroft was fairly certain he knew what she wanted to say. Wanted to _suggest_.

Only _this_ time, he was determined they would do things in a much more conventional manner. Sliding his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers found the small velvet box.

#

 **The End**

#

Thank you to everyone who has told me they've enjoyed the story.

It's been great fun to write and your comments are wonderful.


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